


Blackwatch: Origins Edition

by Acesara



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Blood and Violence, Dad Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Introspection, More tags as things progress, Multi, Pre-Recall, Team as Family, actually heavily hinted past r76 ur welcome, gabe and ana are Good Parents, idc about the ship either way so i left it open enough for interpretation, kinda oc centric but it helps reveal things about canon characters so yea, my apologies in advance, my first published fic of anything ever soooo, other canon characters show up eventually so, past r76 if u squint, soooooo many OC's i am apologize, thi is about the cowboy my son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2018-12-10 06:32:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11686017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acesara/pseuds/Acesara
Summary: Blackwatch was Gabriel Reyes' brain child. The lemonade he made of lemons. But Blackwatch was clandestine, covert. It was the power behind the throne; all cloak and dagger. Blackwatch was never meant for ground pounding, grunt work.Which makes Jesse Mccree wonder why the fuck they're here.





	1. Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, hope you guys enjoy my first work. I left translations to all the military jargon at the bottom as well as music listening suggestions while you read.

“Gentlemen, we just seized an airfield. And lemme tell you, that was some pretty fuckin’ ninja shit I’m tellin’ ya.”

 

The solitary exclamation cut its way through the steady hum of chatter and life that enveloped the sequestered ground team base. Mccree lifted the brim of his hat and turned his head to glance at the returning Delta squad. Agent Thomas ‘Popcorn’ Bristow headed up the returning party, swaggering past Mccree’s relaxed form in favor of joining some of the other agents gathered around the comm station. 

Mccree rolled his eyes and lowered the brim again. One hand idly flicked the cap to his zippo lighter open and closed.

 

_ Open and close. Open and close. In and out. In and out. _

 

His other hand grazed his sidearm holster. Thumbing Peacekeeper’s hammer gently. The motion’s were repetitive-- one could easily write them off as a nervous tick. But the other agents knew better; better not to disturb Mccree while he’s calming himself. Knew to leave him the fuck alone. Let him unfuck himself.

 

After all the other agents aside from Delta knew that three short hours ago, he’d lost half his squad.

 

_ His  _ squad, which had been running interference for the main ground team. The ground team that had just ‘fuckin’ ninja’ed their way’ into seizing an airfield unopposed. Supposedly.

 

_ Fuck you, Bristow. _

 

The thrum of voices grew in number now with Delta back in the fold. Yet Mccree could only think of the empty spaces in between the chatter where Echo squad should’ve taken residence.

 

The other half of Echo’s members were in several states of unreachable.

 

Sahakian had to be airlifted back to the closest watchpoint for sustained injuries. Laurent had collapsed of exhaustion the moment their feet touched friendly soil and was holed up in medbay. Vetrov decided to take one for the team and went ahead to personally deliver the mission report to The Brass, sparing his team the pain of having to attend a debrief. Parikh had sequestered himself in the latrine; sputtering and shaking, desperate to scrub the blood and brain matter off his hands and face before his scheduled skype-call to his children that evening.

 

And what was Jesse Fuckin’ Mccree doing? Sulking. Sulking and fondling his gun and retracing every wrong step he made on that mission. Beating himself up for every miscolor outside of the lines. Chewing the insides of his mouth till they were bleeding and raw because he got out alive, yes, and a mother of three--Ogundimu-- did not. 

 

In short?  He was dicked up. Doing a whole lot of  _ nothing. _

 

“Hey, Cowboy….”

 

_ Nothing. Nothing, nothing… _

_ Nothingnothingnothingfornobodybecausei’mfuckin’uselessthat’swhyit’smyfaultallmyfaultgod... _

 

“Hey….?”

 

**_It’s all my fault-_ **

 

_ “HELLO?” _

 

**God, what am I gonna tell Reyes, God; he’s gonna hate me shitshitshitshit-**

 

“MCCREE!”

 

That snapped him out of it.

 

Mccree jolted in his seat, his eye’s flicked up to meet Akami’s; Delta squad’s medic.

Deep amber iris’ met another set so dark they could’ve been called black. Through his peripherals Mccree could see that the agents at the comm table’s had physically stiffened in their seats. Some clutching radios and others, their sidearms. Bristow looked like a deer in the headlights, his head cocked at an owlishly painful angle. Akami cleared her throat and glared at the table before slowly turning to Mccree.

 

“....hey…you. Didn’t mean to scare ya….” Mccree just blinked at her.

 

“Y’mind taking your hand off the gun?” He blinked again, glanced down and back up at her. He’d nearly drawn Peacekeeper halfway. The safety was off. Mccree let out a small choked noise and quickly turned on the safety, hastily returning Peacekeeper to the holster. His face was flushed. It had to be. He could feel the embarrassment climbing its way up his throat, teasing him with suffocation.

 

“Anyone sitting here..?” Akami gestured vaguely to a crate adjacent to him. Mccree, not trusting his voice just yet, shook his head quickly.

 

“Thank ya kindly.” She drawled thickly. It was an exaggeration of his own accent, done up for comedic effect or some other light hearted shit like that. It was accompanied with a tip of a cowboy hat on her head that she wasn’t wearing.

 

She plunked down carefully and scooted the crate closely to his own.

“Sooo….”

Mccree let out a low, gravely “so” in reply.

 

A stretch of silence just too many seconds too long followed.

 

“I heard about Echo…..about the interference you guys ran for us….it turning to shit and all.”

 

She received no reply this time. Akami didn’t need one anyway.

 

“You guys kicked ass out there today. We wouldn’t have secured that airfield so quickly without your help. And certainly without so few injuries if any.”

 

That got her a scathing glare. Mikami pretended not to see it.

 

“Ugh, shit sorry. I-i’m not really good at this. I guess I’m just trying to say thank you. Thank you for going out there and doing your job and helping me get Delta out of there in one piece.”

 

“.....”

 

Akami huffed out a breath. “Hey, I’ve become pretty proficient at understanding your hick english and all, but I ain’t an expert at translating mumbles yet sooo, what’d ya just say?”

 

“I said.” Mccree gritted out, his voice turning the slightest bit venomous “You’re  _ welcome” _ When she was, in Mccree’s mind, not the slightest bit welcome.

 

“...Well. Good then. That’s-that’s good.” An awkward pause takes place before Akami changes the subject. “You know, before Echo’s interference went all FUBAR towards the end there, I’d say you guys were shit hot. You reanalyzed the situation, regrouped, pulled yourselves together and got out. A few wolves died, yea, but the pack survived.” Akami said frankly.

 

Mccree fixed her with an incredulous look. He huffs and takes a moment to collect himself just a little bit more before he makes a simple judgement call.

 

“Bullshit.” Mccree barks.

 

Akami returns his glare. “Is not.”

 

“Is too.” He can feel his frustration growing. The temporary gorilla-glue fix that was his resolve is quickly flaking away.

 

“How so?”

 

“Because.” Mccree grits out. "A pack ain’t a pack without the whole lot of ‘em. We’re simply the chewed up stragglers that got the fuck outta dodge before anyone else could die. We stopped being Blackwatch, being a team." A  _ pack--”  _ Mccree’s tone is acidic. _ Mocking. _ “--the moment the first agent dropped dead on that airfield. The moment we didn’t go back for their bodies…”

 

Akami opens her mouth to say something, but Mccree’s not quite done yet.

 

_ Never done talking, always gotta have the last words and then some, huh kid? _

 

Mccree mutters to himself, self-deprecatingly, “no one left behind….crock a shit…”He lets out a hollow breath of a laugh.

 

Akami put up her palms up to face him in a placating gesture, but Mccree had already turned away from her. Shaking his head to himself, he began chewing on the insides of his cheeks again. He wishes he could taste his cigarillos again, all smoke and wood and  _ earth _ . It sure as hell beat the coppery tang of shame and blood in his mouth at the present.

 

_ Damn Reyes for making me promise to quit cold turkey. _

 

Akami continued murmuring what Mccree guessed were words of consolation or apology. He guessed because he didn’t know. Her words were being effectively tuned out as of this moment, and Mccree for once couldn’t find himself caring that he’d just snapped at a superior NCO. Her tone was doing enough of a good job already making Mccree feel like a scolded child; patronized and insolent. Puffy eyes ringed with red; huffing out angry tears in between the hiccups and coughs of frustration.

 

At the edge of his mind, Jesse can almost _feel_ the warm, calloused hands that would follow such temper tantrums. Sifting and sorting through wayward locks of sable brown hair. Hands that belonged to a woman with a weary, weather-worn smile. She presses her lips--chapped and sun-kissed, to his forehead and steady fingers wipe away the tracks of liquid salt from his eyes.

 

Akami’s muted prattling brought Jesse-- _ no. I’m on the job-- _ Mccree back to the present. He swallows and shifts uncomfortably in place. Stamping down the flashbulb memory in his head.

 

At some point, some time, he can feel Akami leave. Mccree exhales a breath he didn’t think he was holding. He dares a glance up. The comm station is mostly quiet now. Bristow disappeared. Same with the rest of Delta. Vetrov trudges back into the tent, his shoulders visibly sagging. The hand holding the mission reports and likely debriefing notes is balled into a fist. A paper from the fistful falls to the floor but he doesn’t seem to notice.

 

Not like Mccree says anything anyway.

 

Parikh emerges from the opposite tent flap. Both hands carefully clutch at an open laptop. As the man rushes past; Mccree can see moving shapes and sounds on the brightly lit screen. Two bright, little faces beam at their _bapu_ smiling at them from halfway across the world. They jabber to each other excitedly in what Mccree guesses is Gujarati...?Hindi? Mccree sees the crinkle at the edges of  the man’s eyes, the harsh screens glow illuminates his wrinkles and sunspots. His smile.

 

Not blood. Not skin in thick, slushy clumps. Not Koppel’s brains; his blonde hairs and scalp plastered to Parikh’s brow and cheek after the enemy sentry blasted his head sky-high. The only thing adorning the older man’s visage now is the amount of pure adoration he holds for two little angels seemingly a world away from him. At the sound of the daughter’s laughter, the son’s exclamations, something in Mccree’s chest lurches and he stamps down the tight feelings in his throat again with a redoubled effort.

 

He’s still flicking the zippo lighter cap.

 

_ Breath, Mccree. _

_ Breath, Jesse. _

 

_ Open and close. Open and close. _

 

_ In and out. In and out. _


	2. Storytime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In continuing with the format, translations for different acronyms, languages and military slang will be posted in the end notes. Thanks for sticking around c:

Mccree wakes up that next morning at Stupid O’Clock to the sound of Vetrov slamming his rucksack on the cot to his side. He hears the angry mumbling in russian that follows.

 

Mccree absently rubs his eyes and croaks out, “good mornin’ to you to, Cinderella.”

 

Vetrov huffs out an irritated breath, but cracks the smallest of smiles his way; it wasn’t in Vetrov’s nature to turn down some good teasing. “Cinderella? Please Mccree, if you're going to make me a fairytale princess, at least remember my ethnicity.”

 

Mccree cracks his neck this way and that. “Well, I just don’t know of any princess’ that was russian….only russian princess I know of got butchered by her own common people, that’d be you folks.” Mccree lets out a jaw-cracking yawn.

 

A pulse of silence follows. Vetrov continues rummaging through his rucksack, his eyes searching into the middle distance. He stops and smiles before he utters, “ Tsarevna Nesmeyana.”

 

“Uh, gesundheit?”

 

Vetrov lets out an airy laugh. “ _ Tsarevna Nesmeyana.”  _ He reiterates. As if his repetition of the original phrase helped Mccree any. Mccree was sitting up now, casually stretching out his shoulder and triceps.

 

Vetrov gives up on Mccree getting it and he huffs out his disappointment. “You asked me for a fairytale princess of my heritage, no? _Tsarevna Nesmeyana;_ The Unsmiling Princess is one such. _I_ _grew up_ with such tales. That and _Репка_ ….” Vetrov stops his search to clutch the side of his face with a hand, muttering, “God, I feel old.”

 

“You are old, but that’s ‘side the point.” Mccree let out with a crooked grin. Vetrov doesn’t retort to that, as his rucksack excursion continues.

 

“So, what’s the deal with this, uh, Sar-eeva Nesmey-ana?”

 

Vetrov ignores the language butchering and glances up, “you know you are rather chatty for this our of the morning, I thought considering yesterday’s events, especially after your little chat with Akami that you’d rather not make conversation that does not need to happen, no?”

 

Mccree’s grin freezes in place, he speaks, his mouth moves as little as possible now. “What can I say? The medic just went somewhere she shouldn’t’ve ‘s all.”

 

Vetrov has already turned his head back to his bag, but he ‘mmhm’s’ all the same. Suddenly he freezes and his hand makes a guest appearance outside the bag. He’s holding what looks to be a little woven bracelet, its chain made of little knots separated at certain intervals by wooden beads. A stubby little tassel hangs at the cord's end. It looks beaten up and well worn. A sign of repeated, fervent use.

 

Vetrov speaks again after letting out an exaggerated sigh. “But since you asked, Tsarevna Nesmeyana was a princess who was known to never smile or laugh, so her father promised her hand in marriage to any man in the kingdom who could make his little girl smile. Meanwhile, an honest man across town would only take a coin at a time as payment for services to his master, and was known to offer his meager pay as alms to a mouse, beetle and catfish that he found begging. One day, he happened upon the princess--”

 

Mccree couldn’t believe Vetrov had actually thought he was serious about wanting to hear the story. He almost laughed, but didn’t. He could feel the smack upside the head Reyes would give him if he were to laugh or interrupt. It would be accompanied by a ‘ _ don’t be fuckin’ rude, ingrate. You wanted a goddamn bedtime story and he’s gonna give it to you.’  _ Mccree huffs to himself in amusement.

 

He examines the older man as he speaks, his tone, a heavily accented russian timbre that rumbles and ripples through the air around him. His dirty blonde hair is gelled back into a James Bond-esque comb over, but a few errant strands at the front come undone. His eyes are a pale blue-gray. They are honest eyes. Sincere and striking all in one, set above high cheekbones  and chiseled jaw, the stubble a mere shadow upon it. Mccree finds himself staring at the man’s  handsome profile too long and turns his gaze slightly so Vetrov sits comfortably in his peripherals instead. Mccree can feel his cheeks warm, a pinkish tinge threatening to show itself on his visage. He frowns when he sees Vetrov reach up with a hand to quickly smooth his hair back into place.

 

Mccree is too fuckin’ gay for this. Or bisexual. Or Vetrovsexual. Who can say for sure?

 

Not Mccree,  _ that’s _ for sure.

 

It was at time like these, that Mccree has to remind himself that Vetrov is in fact, one of Reyes’ most prolific and successful honeypot agents. The man makes a living seducing and blackmailing people. Ply’s his trade best when he is extorting and backstabbing. Looking effortlessly trustworthy and alluring is second nature at this point. He plays with emotions and sensuality as casually as one plays the weekly lottery.

 

Mccree doesn’t wonder anymore why Vetrov has never had a steady lover or relationship; why he probably never will. Vetrov, like so many other Blackwatch agents, lose themselves in the job, the mission. After a while, if they don’t die first, they become the mission. And The Mission soon becomes all they have left. Mccree wonders if Vetrov has a hard time living with himself.

 

Mccree does. Sometimes.

 

The story ends. The honest man falls in the mud and the mouse, beetle and catfish go to help him. The princess laughs at their antics, she smiles. They get married. Happily ever after.

 

They talk for a while after that. Mccree finds himself doing a lot of talking these days. Not much else to do during downtime during or in between missions. There’s a lot of silence, waiting. Monotony broken up by short, intense bursts of chaos and fighting, people bleeding, screaming, dying. Before it’s all quiet on the western front again. It’s a lot like the ‘hurry up and wait’ games that took place during the trench warfare of WW1. That’s how Reyes described it once.

 

So they talk. Vetrov tells Mccree the long and short of the shitty debrief; Brass is satisfied that the airfield and its perimeter were secured, but they want Charlie, Delta and Echo to move out by tomorrow morning to secure the airfield warehouse, their primary objective. Vetrov gets Mccree to promise to apologize for his attitude to Akami later. Mccree crosses the fingers to one of his hands underneath the sheets.

Mccree learns the little woven bracelet isn’t a bracelet. Vetrov is a practicing orthodox christian, and the knotted loop of wool is called a prayer rope. A final gift from his dearly departed  _ babulya. _

 

Mccree thinks it looks more and more like a noose the more he stares at it. Mccree doesn’t verbalize his thoughts. Instead he smiles and nods; promises to join him and the others later for a funeral in the makeshift DFAC tent. It’s for Ogundimu, Koppel,the Huang brothers and Mccree learns, now Sahakian,  who turned up under Doctor Angela Ziegler’s care just a tad too late, and was declared dead upon arrival.

 

Vetrov leaves after that and as he passes Mccree, he gives him a pat on the shoulder that Mccree assumes was supposed to be comforting. Vetrov isn’t good at comforting others. Isn’t good at displaying true affection, real feelings. False follies and fancies is the only arena in which Vetrov thrives now.

 

Terrifying.

 

When Mccree finally left his tent, it was still dark out. The sun was just peaking out above the Monacan horizon line. Their mission had taken Blackwatch to one of the few woodlands in the nation, and yet,  the air still reeked with pollution. The crisis had leveled many cities and parts of the coastline. Making a once densely packed and populated country slightly more sparse, empty. Yet the smog, the stains of human life remained.

 

That airfield and its adjoining warehouse were the only human structures Blackwatch intelligence had picked up on for miles.

 

Mccree made his way down to the comm station and received the mission updates from specialist Lacroix, who had appointed Vetrov as Echo squad leader following Ogundimu’s death. Before Lacroix ended communication Mccree felt himself asking, “sir, just what’s so important about this warehouse? Why send three blackwatch squads to secure a few miles of forest and flatlands?”

 

Lacroix frowns before answering, “I’m afraid that’s above your pay-grade, cowboy. Information is on a need to know basis. Take it up with your squad leader-”

 

“Vetrov don’t know shit either and you know it. Ogundimu kept her lips sealed and now she's dead. We lost good men gettin’ that empty piece a fuckin’ real estate yesterday and we just might lose some more by the end of this week. Just tell me so I can relay it to Vetrov; ain’t fair for Echo to be kept in the dark.”

 

Mccree can see the frenchman mull over the decision, the conflict in his mismatched eyes of blue and brown is apparent. Mccree can hear Lacroix subtly sigh, see the slight sagging of his shoulders, and knows he won this battle.

 

“Alright. But this information  _ is  _ need to know, no? And you’d better not tell Reyes I shared this with you directly….Anyway. The warehouse is currently being operated by personnel we believe to have ties to a Talon cell somewhere in either France or the Iberian peninsula. They chiefly maintain the building and airfield to export and import illegal weaponry, ammunition, tactical gear and who knows what else. As you know, Monaco’s defense and preservation is  _ France’s  _ responsibility technically; a responsibility they have not been able to keep since the crisis years…”

 

Mccree crosses his arms. “So what, now we gotta do France’s job for ‘em? Ain’t they got their own anti-terrorist task force? A force if I’m not mistaken, was headed up by  _ you _ once upon a time sir.” Mccree allows himself a small grin, he’s glad he took a glance at Lacroix’s personnel file while it had taken up residence on Reyes’ desk a few weeks back.

 

Lacroix rolls his eyes and mumbles something under his breath. “Yes. Once upon a time indeed...And then marriage happens. Funny how life just gets in the way like that, so meddlesome....” He trails off, his frown morphs into the tiniest of grins. Mccree can’t see it, but Lacroix glances down at the single picture frame on his desk, propped up in between the vase of red carnations and holo-communicator on his desk.

 

_ Mon Dieu, who knew Amelie could wear white so well? _

 

Mccree clears his throat, eyes resting anywhere that isn’t the love struck specialist on the other end of the call. Lacroix remembers himself, meeting Mccree’s gaze again and continues.

“Right. So. France finds itself  _ regrettably _ unable to defend Monaco, a small but rather  _ wealthy  _ and  _ densely populated  _ nation that sits dangerously close to Swiss HQ _ ;  _ they turn to Overwatch. It makes sense, no? By having Overwatch step in, France can claim that they haven’t the resources to uphold their duties and yet enough international influence to ensure that someone else may step in and take on the mantle, saving France’s reputation and a  _ very  _ grateful-- and did I mention wealthy?-- population.”

 

“So why’s Blackwatch here and not Overwatch? We ain’t ground pounders.”

 

Lacroix gives an strained shrug, shaking his head. “ _ I _ don’t even know that one. Trust me, I tried to argue that Overwatch’s tac-team would be far better equipped to handle securing such an objective but ah, Commander Morrison passed the puck to Reyes all the same. When we insisted that Blackwatch was meant for covert, singular operations and not big group maneuvers-- bah! Morrison would not hear it! He said he knew Blackwatch was capable of a lot more than cloak-and-dagger routines and ought to _ expand their horizons _ . Some kind of bullshit along those lines.” Lacroix waves his hand as he speaks, he scowls as if the dialogue with Morrison offended his sainted grandmother.

 

Mccree’s frown hardens. Leave it to Captain Fuckin’ America to try and play Batman.

 

“But what do I know? I’ve only spent my entire professional career outsmarting terrorists and generally making their days  _ much  _ worse. Pffah!” Lacroix makes a grand sweeping gesture with his hands skywards and slumps down in a chair he pulls up with his foot. It’s a spinny chair. Lacroix invested in, and is currently making use of the spinny chair, a look of bemused defeat graces his features.

 

Mccree is stilted in thought, choicely ignorant to Lacroix’s distress. “So what’s Echo supposed to do with only four of us left? Laurent is just barely getting over her exhaustion, Vetrov ain’t experienced with leadership positions  _ or _ team ops and Parikh‘s only keepin’ it together for his kids sake, but my guts tellin’ me he can’t take too much else right now.”

 

Lacroix shoots Mccree a considerate glance.

 

“What happens now?” Mccree asks blankly.

 

“Well. You certainly make a good point, which is why I am making the executive decision to….restructure all three squads. No more Charlie, Delta and Echo. This mission started with 27 agents, 3 squads. We’re down to 21 agents, two of which are sequestered to medbay indefinitely. So? We’ll keep it simple.” Lacroix states, he shoots Mccree and expectant glance. Mccree takes the hint and begins a hasty search for a pen and paper pad. Once he’s found it, he adjusts the brim of his hat on his head, and Lacroix continues.

 

“Two groups of 9, two full squads. Ground Team 1 and 2. The first ground team and overall operation will be headed up by Charlie’s squad leader, Anawi-”

 

_ Oh thank God _

 

_ “ _ -Ground Team 2 will be headed up by-”

 

_ Please be Vetrov Please be Vetrov Please be Vetrov Pleasepleaseplease anyone but- _

 

“-Bristow.”

 

_ Fuck _

 

“As for the rest of the mission details, I’ll be sending a missive ahead to both team leaders who will brief their respective teams before departure-”

 

19 agents being deployed in all, only two teams of 9; 18. Something isn’t adding up. Mccree puts the pen down.

 

“And what about the 19th agent? Or was that a miscalculation on yer part, sir?”

 

Lacroix’s expression turns unreadable. Something dangerous glitters in his incongruous eyes. “I was getting to that. Make no mistake, I  _ never  _ miscalculate,  _ bouvier. _ ” Lacroix takes a big breath in. “The 19th agent will be operating alone. While the ground teams surround and secure the complex from the outside, the final agent will make use of the fighting and slip in through an underground tunnel intelligence uncovered that begins a few klicks south of the airfield’s perimeter. They will be disguised as Talon personnel. Once inside, this agent will make their way to the control room somewhere above ground level, and secure any documents and important files kept there. Intelligence suggests there are files that detail the location of the Talon cell’s main base of operations I mentioned before along with bills of sale, contacts, moles, and well, who knows what else.” Lacroix concludes.

 

Mccree nods his head in understanding. It sounds risky, the idea of sending in a lone wolf for data extraction this late in the game while a fight brews outside sends off red flags in his head. But this is Lacroix; Former French Anti-Terrorist Task Force Commander. Current spearheader of an Overwatch subdivision dedicated exclusively to obliterating Talon. Besotted newlywed with a love for ballet dancers, flower arranging, and Croatia in the summertime. And as much as Mccree still clung to his less than healthy mistrust in authority and planning-- a parting gift from his years spent in Deadlock-- he trusted the man. After all, Reyes did. That itself alone was enough to satisfy Mccree. 

 

“And which agent ‘ll be doin’ the infiltration?”

 

“I have a candidate or two in mind. But ultimately it will be Reyes’ decision. Once he’s approved of our course of action-- _ comme de juste _ . After all, it’s  _ his  _ agents I’m playing soldier with.”

 

Mccree grunts in acknowledgement. The conversation seems to die after that, and Lacroix shifts around as if he’s ready to make some sassy ending statement and disconnect the call when Mccree hears himself say, “does Reyes know about the Echo casualties? Does he know what happened?”

 

Lacroix doesn’t verbalize it but suddenly the young agent looks very much like a kicked puppy. Another sigh. “He knows the logistics of the current situation, but not the particulars. Vetrov was instructed to not submit a final mission report until after you all RTB.”

 

“Is it possible for me to speak with him? I-I want to tell him myself.”

 

_ I wanna rip off the band-aid. I wanna tell him to his face that I failed him and not be in the same room as him while I do it. _

 

Lacroix shakes his head. “Apologies. Reyes is in the middle of a rather delicate meeting that  _ must  _ go his way. He will be unavailable for the rest of the day. Which is why  _ I’m  _ the one delegating orders.”

 

“ _ Must…? _ Lacroix, you’ve already told me so much. What else aren’t you tellin’ me? Who’s he meetin’ with? The UN?”

 

Lacroix contemplates spilling the beans again.

 

“Morrison?

 

Lacroix shifts uncomfortably, he clears his throat.

 

“Captain Amari?-”

 

“Representatives from the US Department of Justice.” Lacroix finishes quickly.

 

“Wh-why them? What do they want?” Mccree feels cold pin pricks on the back of his neck. But the tattoo on his left forearm burns. He scratches at it.

 

Lacroix seems to have recovered his resolve. He notices he loses it quite well when it comes to Mccree and the other young agents. Maybe Amelie was right. Marriage  _ has  _ made him soft.

 

_ Ridiculous. _

 

“ _ That  _ I  _ know  _ I can’t tell you. You’ll have to speak to Reyes himself if you’re so interested.”

 

Mccree nods bleakly. “Understood sir.”

 

Lacroix stops spinning in the chair, he straightens out his jacket as he pipes up. Desperate to end the stilted conversation. “Well! If there’s nothing else, you are to hand over your notes to Anawi and Bristow and instruct them keep an ear to the ground for my missive.Now then, if there’s nothing else…..?”

 

“Nothin’ else, sir. Thank you.”

 

Lacroix gives a tight-lipped smile. Eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Bonne chance,  flingueur.”

 

Mccree returns the smile. “Gracias por todos,  Señor.”

 

The call disconnects. Mccree is greeted by Athena’s cheery blue logo backdropped by black. He wonders which agent will be the lucky fucker to miss out on the firefight. Wonders why the fuck the Department of Justice is up his boss’ ass right now.

 

Anawi and Bristow receive Mccree’s comm notes and remain posted in the comms tent waiting for Gerard’s missive. He let’s Vetrov know he’s relieved as acting Echo squad commander and can’t blame the man for excitedly pumping his fist in the air in response. Vetrov isn’t meant for this kind of work and he knows it. Blackwatch wasn’t meant for this kind of work.

 

They’re supposed to be the power behind the throne. Not boots on the ground.

 

But for now Mccree pushes the thoughts down. Instead he spends the rest of the day religiously cleaning Peacekeeper, exercising, and checking his ammunition supply. 

 

When it starts to get dark, Mccree makes his way to DFAC. He left his prized BAMF belt buckle and hat behind. He polished  his black combat boots and replaces the boot strings.He smoothed out the wrinkles in his BDU’s best he can, leaving his button-up shirt, bandana and chaps to the wayside.

 

They’re not exactly funeral attire, after all.

 

He pulled his unruly sable hair into a stubby ponytail and trimmed his beard using nothing but Peacekeeper’s reflection and a penknife he bummed off of Parikh. As he shaves he notes the silverite engraving, small and fine swirling symbols line the blade in a dreamy font on both sides.

 

As he jogs to catch up with Parikh who he sees speaking to Anawi in hushed tones out front, he asks what the inscription means. Anawi places a solid hand on Parikh’s shoulder and enters DFAC without looking back. Parikh sobers up and meets the young man’s eye. He promises to tell Mccree later, and takes back the knife with a curt nod.

 

They head in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Stupid O'Clock- Refers to any time very early in the morning.  
> Tsarevna Nesmeyana- Fairytale that is a russian take on the 'Golden Goose' and 'The Magic Swan.'  
> Репка- 'The Giant Turnip.' A children's fairytale that encourages teamwork and through collaboration, anything is possible.  
> Honeypot- In the world of espionage, it is the code word for someone who is supposed to seduce a man/woman in order to pump secrets from them, steal from them, etc.  
> Hurry Up And Wait- Refer's to the situation in which one is forced to hurry in order to complete a certain task, or arrive at a certain destination, by a specified time; only for nothing to happen at that time.  
> Ground-pounders- Military personnel that is primarily for infantry.  
> Bouvier- 'Cowboy.'  
> Comme de juste- 'Of course, naturally.'  
> Bonne chance, flingueur- 'Good luck, gunslinger.'  
> Gracias por todos, Señor- 'Thank you for everything, sir.'  
> DFAC- Dining Facility.


	3. Roundtrip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, this chapter is a bit shorter than the others and the next will take a little more time. As always, translations and others are in the end notes.  
> By the way, headcanons. Lots of 'em. Love 'em.

The prayer circle or funeral or whatever-the-fuck-this-is-supposed-to-be  goes over as well as you can expect. Blackwatch is comprised of the best of the best. Hardened veterans with honorable discharges, former green berets, ex-Navy Seals and elite, former federal agents make up its ranks, with the exception of one piece of punk desert mange that Reyes scraped off his boots after a sting op in Deadlock Gorge. These men and women are some of the best killers on the planet. So when one of them dies, it’s an off-putting affair. Long pauses of silence and awkward, casual proceedings are the norm.

 

But when someone does speak, there’s nothing but heart behind their words. Vetrov is the first to break the silence. He thanks everyone for coming, for the sacrifice of sleep that every agent here has made as following this ceremony, they have received orders to pack up and be Oscar Mike to the warehouse complex before that upcoming morning.

 

He goes down the list, acknowledging the recently departed.

 

_Yat-sen Huang_

_Zhao Huang_

_Hirschel Koppel_

_Adaobi Ogundimu_

_Lusine Sahakian_

 

Each name is another breath stolen from Mccree’s lungs. Another notch on the belt. Another coffin on his young back. Mccree blames himself, almost entirely. A small part of him with Angela’s tinny voice and Reyes’ ferocity rears up and tries to convince him it’s not all on him. But it’s a small part, and Mccree’s gotten better suppressing the small things. The big shit? Not so much.

 

Not anymore.

 

Losing people used to not mean anything, not feel like anything. It was nothing. That nothingness was more numbing than any morphine, that absolute absence of attachment all consuming. The Nothing was simply a fact of life. A coping mechanism; another gift to Mccree, courtesy of a childhood spent under Deadlock’s loving gaze.

 

Years of the nothing, the numbness made Jesse distant and vicious, callous and uncaring. Borderline feral.

Made him a weapon, a monster.

 

He certainly felt like one at the time.

 

And then the sting op happened. _The Deal_ _TM_ happened, and people slowly started to matter again. Little Fareeha Amari became Pharah or _Cosita_ , Captain Amari became _Miss Ana_ , Dr.Ziegler was now _Angie_. Torbjorn was _Grumpy Uncle,_ Liao was _Grump Uncle #2,_ and Reinhardt was _The Way Cooler, Less Grumpy Uncle._

 

Reyes became lots of things other than Commander. He was _Old Man, El Jefe,_ _Patrón, Pain-In-My-Fuckin’-Ass-For-Waking-Me-Up-In-The-Middle-Of-The-Night-To-Go-Running-Jesus-Fuck--,_ and sometimes, only in the quietest recess’ of Jesse’s mind does he think up Reyes to be _Pa_ or _Pops._

 

Not like he’d ever say that one out loud.

 

Never.

 

Overwatch. Blackwatch-- same difference really-- meant _Home_.

 

And Strike Commander Morrison?

He was _Captain Fuckin’ America, Joseph Christiansen Jr._ or _King Boy Scout_

Because fuck him. That’s why.

 

Mccree snaps out of the _very_ long train of thought he has ridden right up to Introspection-ville and returns to Watchpoint: Mournington out of common decency and propriety for the occasion.

  


Parikh tears up when Bristow starts to talk about the Huang brothers, their commitment to The Mission and to each other, how they only had one another until the military and Blackwatch happened. Their absolute refusal to be separated, evidently even in death. Parikh excuses himself from the funeral entirely the moment someone mentions Koppel offhandedly. Akami shares a funny story about a kitchen raid she and Sahakian went on once. Anawi speaks of late night stakeouts and 3AM dinners at Denny’s with Ogundimu after missions gone wrong. Vetrov wraps up the ‘service’ by asking everyone to partake in a moment of silence. He doesn’t need to ask twice for muteness from Blackwatch agents.

 

When the moment ends, agents slowly pick their heads up and while some, like Bristow, immediately exit DFAC, others find any excuse to linger, to mill around. Mccree notes that Vetrov holds the moment of silence a few beats longer than the others. Mccree could’ve sworn he heard Vetrov mutter a ‘Lord have mercy’ before he grabs an MRE from one of the crates,  and begins violently tearing open the meal pouch to scarf down the enclosed skittles package with an animalistic hurriedness. Mccree watches him file out without another word, the prayer rope still firmly woven around his free hand.

 

Mccree can’t claim to have an excuse to act out in a particularly mournful way, despite the fact that their deaths _did_ sting. He was still the FNG _and_ “The Kid” which put a noticeable social and personal distance between him and many of the other Blackwatch agents. They were his teammates, his coworkers. Sometimes they took on the mantle of being like his cool, but distant college siblings living away from home that could drink him under the table several times over. But they weren’t _Cosita, Miss Ana, Angie,_ any number of uncles, _King Cornboy the First,_ or _Gabriel Fucking Reyes._

 

They weren’t those things because they never could be now.

Never could be because he didn’t pull his weight hard enough. Do _more._ Be _more._

 

And for that reason as well. Mccree mourned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Cosita- Spanish term of endearment. Means 'cute little thing.'  
> MRE- Self-contained, individual field ration in lightweight packaging.  
> FNG- Derogatory term. Means 'Fucking New Guy.'
> 
> \----  
> listen,,,, michael chu seems intent on starving me to death w/ the lack of mccree and blackwatch content so i gotta make some myself ya feel????


	4. Lord have Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooooooo boy. long chapter but thats ok since there probs won't be anymore daily updates so yea. also yea shit starts to get real so enjoy.  
> As always tidbits, and translations for slang and language are in the end notes.

No one sleeps well that night, or not at all really, truth be told. Anawi is the one to rouse Mccree from the limbo between sleep and consciousness with a tender hand rubbing his shoulder. She kinda looks like what Mccree would envision Miss Ana to look like if she were old; leathery brown skin and sweet, button-like eyes. Her hair is tucked into a careful braided bun of black and streaks of gray. From nearly head to toe she is clad in black, saving for a simple chain of silver hanging from her neck. A gold wedding band hangs from its end.

 

_ Thought Miss Ana said muslims don’t wear weddin’ bands-- _

 

“Mccree, get up. We must speak. It is urgent.” Mccree rubs the fatigue from his eyes and forces himself upright and then standing altogether. She does not wait long and begins hurriedly tugging him towards the comm tent. He barely snatches his hat from the side of his cot before they exit.

 

“Ma’am is something wr--”

 

“ _ Eskoot!  _ Not out here.” She angrily hisses. Mccree lets himself be dragged by the elderly, syrian woman into the tent and she bolts over to the holo-communicator. Mccree can hear the stomping of boots and Vetrov and Akami’s laughter from outside as they begin dismantling the other tents. Mccree peers over Anawi’s shoulder as she rapidly taps command codes in, overriding Athena’s welcoming screen and instead bringing them to a page blanked by black save for a phone icon in the middle. Anawi sighs out some pent up frustration and turns to Mccree.

 

“Do you know who Reyes decided to make the 19th agent?”

 

Mccree blinks at her in answer, frowning. “No ma’am, I reckon that was for only the GT leaders to know.”

 

Anawi rolls her eyes and mumbles something in arabic into the little comm piece in her ear.

 

“Ma’am, what’s this about?” 

Anawi glances back at the cowboy and motions for him to stand beside her at the screen.

“I’ll let her tell you about it.”

 

“.... _ Her? _ Who’s her--”

 

Suddenly the screen fills with color. It’s Lacroix’s office, but the figure staring daggers at the two of them is not him. A woman stands in his place. She bears a pale complexion and raven locks that frame her sharp features. Almost golden eyes narrow in dismay.

 

She speaks, her accent heavy with a french lilting. “Is this  _ him _ ?” She sneers.

 

“Yes, Mrs. Lacroix. This is agent Mccree.”

 

_ Mrs…?No fuckin’ way. _

 

_ “Really….?  _ Are you  _ sure?” _

 

Anawi sighs.

  
  


Mrs.Lacroix let’s out an audible noise of disgust once his hat comes into view. She observes the bandana around his neck with equal distaste before answering her own question, curling her upper lip smattered in plum lipstick at Mccree’s fashion choices. “It  _ is…..” _

 

_ Yep. She’s the missus. _

 

Mccree takes off the hat, pressing it to his chest. “Ma’am? A pleasure.”

 

A clatter in the background behind her brings Lacroix back to the matter at hand. Anawi stares solidly at Lacroix before she speaks.

 

“Alright, let’s make this quick then. You are going to be infiltrating the warehouse. The coordinates to the underground entrance should be sent to your datapad shortly. Anawi has a uniform for you and one of their standard issue pulse rifles, get familiar with it--”

 

“ Now hold on there--” Mccree balks.

 

“And don’t talk to anyone in there, that  _ horrendous  _ accent will give you right away--”

 

“Hey now!--”

 

“And you are not under any circumstances to speak of your assignment or anything you find to anyone that is not my husband or Lieutenant Anawi. Now then, these files suggest that the data--”

 

“What the fuck, slow down a second!--” Mccree has a vice grip on the top of his hat. He only half knows just how bad he’s crushing it.

 

“Then stop interrupting me!” The frenchwoman snaps at him. Mccree’s eyes go wide and he simply swallows audibly. Mrs. Lacroix huffs, “look I should not even be here right now, I am simply passing along Gerards wishes because a prior engagement has him stalled for the moment. As I was saying, we have no way of exactly pinpointing the exact location of the control room which houses the data so you’ll have to do that legwork on your own.”

 

Mccree’s head is spinning. The Missus’ mouth is traveling a mile a minute and Anawi has fixed a permanent stare on him that could make stone crack from the pressure she emits alone. His eyes dart between the two. Somethings off. Why all the hush hush secrecy? Why wasn’t he alerted sooner that  _ he  _ was the infiltrator? 

 

And there’s no fuckin’ way that Reyes signed off on this, Mccree is sure. Which spurs him to speak up.

 

“That’s all well ‘n good ma’am but lemme just get this straight…” Lacroix and Anawi both huff. Mccree rolls his eyes before continuing. “ _ I’ll  _ be running the infiltration op and securing the files, and that’s all well ‘n good ‘n all but….I’d like to know who Reyes  _ really  _ approved of to run this leg of the op, because there ain’t a chance in hell that he’d trust me with something like this as of now.” Two sets of eyes blink at him, Anawi looks nonplussed, her mouth opens slightly. Mccree sees the tug of Mrs. Lacroix’s lips into a smirk. 

 

“And I also wanna know why the change in operatives?”

 

Lacroix fixes Anawi with a cheshire grin. “Do you wish to tell him, or should I?”

 

Anawi frowns. “No. That’s--I will.” She clears her throat before speaking. “Specialist Lacroix and I have reason to believe that there is a double agent among Blackwatch on this op.”

 

Mccree feels his neck grow cold. Outside the tent, something drops on the ground heavily and Akami lets out a cackle, followed by an ungodly screech from Bristow.

 

“Furthermore….I believe that Reyes unknowing of this traitor in our midst selected  _ them  _ to be the infiltrator. When Lacroix and I persisted that this agent was untrustworthy and should be removed from this extraction detail, Reyes would hear nothing of it, and demanded we deliver this details of the operation to his 19th agent of choice. I withheld the information and they still have not been informed of their would-be assignment; nor will they be.”

 

Mccree slowly nods. Some pieces still don’t fit right. “Who is it then? Who’s the mole, who did Reyes choose?” 

 

Anawi’s face tightens in anger and she grits out, “ _ Vetrov. _ ”

 

Mccree can only hear static in his ears for a few hot minutes, but Anawi steamrolls on, “I didn’t want to believe it myself, but I had my suspicions, as did Lacroix. I have people watching him right now so he doesn’t get any ideas about pulling anything while on my ground team but I truly don’t know when and if he’ll decide to turn coat while we’re in there.”

 

“I-it can’t be Vetrov,how-- how do you  _ know?!” _

 

Anawi’s scowls, “I overheard him using his comm on CQ duty some nights ago…..speaking to an untraceable individual about our location…. supply lines...how many of us are left here, our arrival times, what weaponry we utilize. It took everything in me to not strangle him then and there.”

 

Mccree tries to pipe up but Anawi isn't finished yet.

 

"And making calls to the same untraceable individual from the holo-communicator during hours of non-permitted usage, which he never logged down.

 

“He...he coulda just been reportin’ logistics to the admin officers back home…?” Mccree weakly defends.

 

“And Bristow caught him returning from a ‘solo patrol’  _ well  _ after lights out the day before yesterday. When Bristow pressed him about what routes he took and if anyone signed off on his leaving ground team base, he deflected and stormed off.”

 

Mccree huffs, his voice pitches, “are you kiddin’ me? The guy coulda just been takin’ a piss, smokin’ a cig, or...pfft havin’ some _ alone time _ . Come  _ on _ ma’am--”

 

“I saw the brand on his shoulder blade.” Anawi’s voice holds a tone of finality.

 

“A….brand? What..what kinda--” Mccree’s right hand automatically grazes the brand on his left forearm.

 

“A dagger-like ‘T’ in black and red ink. Talon has no official banner or symbol but some M.E.’s have cited this symbol on some Talon infantry corpses before….I saw it on accident, walked in on Vetrov and Esparza...I…” The old woman’s face turns an ungodly shade of red, her face crumpling in embarrassment. She probably has kids Vetrov’s age.

 

_ Ew. _

 

She shakes her head and concludes. “Esparza is a recent transfer from Overwatch’s medical team from Indonesia… he wouldn’t have known what he was looking at if he saw it, and Vetrov knew that. I’ve only seen the two go off together for sanitation, never anyone else in Vetrov’s company.

 

Mccree knows his argument is pathetic at best. “Maybe...shit, ah, maybe they had--have-- a thing goin’ on between them…?And….and….”

 

Mccree stops his thoughts to gaze at the women peering at him. Anawi looks deflated, Mrs.Lacroix seems deadpan, unreadable, almost….bored? Mccree stops talking and he puts the hat on his hat in order to stop himself from crushing it further, from ruining the brim with his worried hands. He can’t look at either of them any longer so he doesn’t, instead he finds his polished combat boots far more interesting right this moment.

 

_ There’s no fuckin’ way it’s Vetrov…… _

 

_ It can’t be…. _

 

_ Nah…. _

 

Anawi starts speaking again, breaking the tension.“I’ve already taken the liberty of destroying his personal comm and ‘misplacing’ his extra ammunition.”

 

The cold lump in Mcree’s throat is tough to swallow.

 

_ I’ve been sleeping next to a traitor for three weeks… _

 

_ Right under our fuckin’ noses--shit--- _

  
  


“In addition, Lacroix wishes the existence of a 19th agent on this op to remain unknown to the rest of the team. Our two ground teams will head out in an hour, I will instruct Bristow of the plan and we will tell our ground teams that you will be remaining behind to man the comms and watch over Laurent.”

 

Mccree interrupts, crossing his arms. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to send in Akami, or the other medic, Esparza? I don’t see the other agents buying leaving behind their resident sharpshooter to babysit the radios and the bedridden instead of a medic.”

 

Mrs. Lacroix smirks again. Observing Mccree and Anawi as if she were watching a leisurely game of tennis.

 

Anawi puts up a hand placatingly. “The medics will be needed on the mission, and no one is going to look a gift medic in the mouth when they plunge themselves into a firefight with Talon. Besides….”

 

An opening tent flap grabs Mccree’s attention, he jumps, whipping his head back, his right hand already brushing against a holstered Peacekeeper. A fully functional, well-rested Laurent saunters into the comm station as soon as he is out of view of the others outside the tent.

 

“Laurent  _ may  _ have over exaggerated his condition to Akami.” Laurent offers Anawi a two-fingered salute from his forehead and a ‘good morning’ to the two others before he stations himself at the radio charging docks and begins his routine maintenance checkups of the equipment, as if nothing else was going on.

 

Mccree shakes his head, hands on his hips. He had fireman carried all 175 lbs of that man during the last 5 mile trek back to base when he ‘fainted’ of exhaustion.

 

Mccree jerks a thumb at him. “He in on this too?”

 

Anawi grins, “Perhaps?”

 

A pulse of silence grips the tent. Mccree lets out a deep sigh.

 

“So Reyes doesn’t know that y’all ‘r doin’ any of this…?”

 

Mccree receives a bunch of head nods as his answer.

 

“And y’all ‘r just….expectin’  _ me  _ to just go against his orders because you and Lacroix say so?”

 

Again, more head nodding. 

 

Mccree murmurs next, “and you’re  _ sure  _ Vetrov’s workin’ for Talon?”

 

Anawi sagely nods, “yes Jesse, I do.”

 

_ Jesse. _

 

Ouch.

 

“I don’t….I don’t know. I mean this is Reyes’ call and I--I don’t much like the thought of workin’ against but but if you’re  _ sure  _ that Vetrov is…..he’s--”

 

“We  _ are” _ , Anawi insists.

 

“Then. Then I guess I’m in, ain’t I?” Mccree tries to smile. It looks more like a grimace but neither women say anything about it.

 

The thought of working against Reyes, even if it is for the best sends Mccree’s stomach churning. At first, it seemed like Reyes demanded the world from Jesse in return for no prison. But upon further reflection, it wasn’t much really. 

 

_ Train your ass off, set yourself straight, take orders and no back talk. No smoking, no drinking, no gambling. Do your job and do it well. Either that, or get comfortable sleeping in a jail cell. _

 

Over time, Reyes seemed to just add to the laundry list of requirements he put on Mccree.

 

_ Stop giving Doctor Ziegler a hard time, stop giving Lieutenant Wilhelm a hard time, stop giving Captain Amari a hard time and stay the hell away from her kid before she kills you. Stop giving MORRISON a hard time. Feel free to keep being an asshole to Torbjorn though, that’s just fine.  _ Reyes said the last one with a twinkle in his eye and a huge grin on his face.

 

And then, Reyes gave Mccree what he thought would be the hardest orders to follow.

 

_ Talk to me, kid. I need you to trust me, kid. Take care of yourself, kid.  Loosen up a little bit, kid. _

 

_ I need you to tell me when something’s wrong, okay? _

 

_ I need you to know you can always ask me for help, okay? _

 

_ Be honest with me. _

 

_ Don’t ever lie to me, mijo--- _

 

Mccree stops thinking again. Just in time, too. Mrs. Lacroix signs off before she can be caught in her husband's office communicating with Blackwatch operatives who  _ totally don’t exist.  _ Anawi tells Mccree that he will be alerted as to when he can begin to set off on his own behind the ground teams and start traveling south to the underground tunnel. She hands him the Talon uniform folded up in a sleek cargo bag and a Talon standard-issue pulse rifle wrapped in a black garbage bag.

 

Holding the clandestine rifle makes Mccree feel like he’s holding sin incarnate, burning holes into the palms of his hands. He frowns but shrugs the gun strap over his shoulder all the same.

 

He and Anawi lock eye contact one final time before he tips his hat at her. “Good luck out there ma’am, I’ll be standin’ by for your word.”

 

Anawi closes her eyes in acknowledgment. “Go take a walk, son. We’ll be leaving soon enough. If anyone asks you about your baggage tell them Anawi is making you do it because she can.”

 

Mccree breathed out a laugh. “Understood ma’am.” With a sideways glance to Laurent Mccree exits the tent. Most of the camp has been taken down, packed up into tight carrying cases and bags. A small pile of crates are stacked by some trees; all ready for loading by evac once the mission is complete. Only the comm station and medbay are left standing. Bristow is already organizing his ground team, taking roll call. They catch one another’s eyes for a moment so Mccree forces himself to look away.

 

Because Mccree knows that Bristow is still staring.

 

Akami and Esparza are trading equipment, speaking in hushed tones, watering down what liquid morphine and biotics they have left. They know they’ll need much more than what they have.

 

Some other agents that Mccree doesn’t know as well, like Kennedy and Holmes wave and head nod to him as they pass. He pretends not to see them walking hand in hand, bumping each other's shoulders playfully.

 

Fraternization between agents is discouraged, after all.

 

Finally Mccree comes across the last person he wanted to see, sitting under the shade of a large Yew tree, his back pressed against the solid trunk. Mccree comes closer, gazing up to look at the inviting, little red berries that hang from the Yew’s branches. They cherry-red and pleasing to the eye. Harmless in appearance and in nature, aside from the fact that they are dangerously poisonous and lethal upon consumption.

 

Mccree thinks they look like little red suction cups from the old cartoons he never got to watch growing up.

 

Right now. Mccree think’s he’d rather eat a whole handful of the berries than ever turn his back to Vetrov again; knowing what he knows now.

 

Vetrov is praying though. Mccree knows that much. Hands clasped casually around the prayer rope. Mccree shifts closer and Vetrov opens his eyes, stopping immediately. He smiles invitingly at Mccree and something in the cowboy’s chest lurches in disgust.

 

_ Shit, ain’t it just amazing what one conversation can do? _

 

“Care to join me?”

 

Mccree doesn’t answer. Vetrov’s still smiling, gesturing to the spot next to him. Mccree doesn’t know what possesses him to do so; but he removes the gun strap from his shoulder and sets the baggage to his side, sitting next to Vetrov; albeit, a decent foot away.

 

“We will be heading out soon.” Vetrov states. Mccree gives a noncommittal shrug.

 

“Are you with Bristow or Anawi?”

 

“So far? I might be on Anawi’s team, I don’t right know yet for sure”, Mccree lies. Vetrov hums at the answer.

 

“I believe I am on Anawi’s team as well.” Vetrov turns to Mccree, “it will be nice to work with you again, hopefully the remnants of Echo will fare better this time, yes?”

 

“Yea….”

 

Vetrov cracks his neck. “Would you like to join me for a closing prayer?” Mccree wrinkles his nose. Not at the thought of prayer which is annoying on its own, but doing it with _ Vetrov. _

 

“Yer orthodox though.”

 

“And you are Catholic, no?” Mccree shrugs again. “I studied western theology when I was still at University, I know more than a few Catholic prayers….thought I might be a priest one day.” Vetrov chuckles to himself. “My  _ mamochka  _ talked me out of it though, said I should go and get married and give her grandkids first.”

 

Mccree side eyes the other man. It takes everything in the gunslinger to not pump the traitor full of Peacekeeper’s lead here and now.

 

“Then why’re you here now?”

 

“Pardon?” Vetrov’s eyebrows scrunch up suddenly.

 

_ What the fuck, Mccree, what are you doing Mccree stopwhatthefuck-- _

 

“Why are you here now? Why are you doin’ what your doin’?”

 

Vetrov considers Mccree for a bit longer than necessary. Mccree is internally screaming at himself now.

 

_ Jesus fuck can I make it any more obvious that I’m onta you, ya yella-bellied, traitorous, sonof a--- _

 

“I suppose….I am here because…..because I can do no less. I am here because I am needed here, and I am not one to turn down a calling. I have a duty to myself to answer that calling.” Vetrov finishes cryptically. His head tilted, still wearing that insufferable smile on his face.

 

Mccree doesn’t smile back, just stares and stares until Vetrov breaks the eye contact first.

_ I win _ , Mccree thinks sourly.

 

“Well then! Shall we pray? It has always given me good luck to do so before a mission. Even more so with good company.”

 

Mccree rolls his shoulders to disguise his desire to get as far away from this guy as possible.

“I reckon yer gonna have to lead it then,  _ Preacher _ .”

 

Bristow’s callsign is ‘Popcorn.’ Anawi’s is ‘Zenobia.’ and Vetrov is ‘Preacher.’ Mccree’s own callsign is ‘Eastwood’ or ‘Blondie’ interchangeably. Mccree hates that Vetrov has become so familiar, so trusted to have a callsign like the rest of them. Calling Vetrov as such leaves a bitter tang on Mccree’s tongue.

 

Vetrov chuckles again. “Will do.” he clears his throat and begins; eyes closed, head reclined to rest against the Yew, still holding the prayer rope. Mccree doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t take the hand off his holster or belt.

 

_ Not on your life, asshole.-- _

 

“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:

where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt,  _ faith _ ;”

 

Mccree wants to fucking scream.

 

“where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

where there is sadness, joy.”

 

Ya  just can’t make this shit up. Ya really, really  _ can’t. _

 

“O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek

to be consoled as to console,

to be understood as to understand,

to be loved as to love.”

 

Mccree lips curl in disgust. A breeze blows through the Yew tree, sending the berries swaying in the wind this way and that. Shifting as if they were little bells that ring out for a funeral toll. Over Vetrov’s ministrations, Mccree can hear Kennedy and Holmes rouse the ground teams into singing a sloppy version of ‘Old King Reyes’ to the tune of ‘Old King Cole.’

 

“For it is in giving that we receive, 

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, 

and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.”

 

“Amen.”

 

_ Amen Indeed. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GT- 'Ground Team'  
> -Talon doesn't have official symbols or insignia sooooo please excuse the plot-hole filling headcanon as tothe tattoo's appearance.  
> \- Yew trees in christianity and some early forms of paganism are associated with mortality, longevity, and death soo foreshadowing perhaps???  
> -The prayer Vetrov recites is St. Francis of Assisi's Peace prayer. It's catholic and since St.Francis isn't even worshipped as a saint in eastern orthodoxy or as a christian that 'true' christians should look up to, Vetrov wouldn't've known the prayer unless he sought it out specifically.  
> -Old King Cole is a popular marching cadence.  
> Thanks for reading and feel free as always to hit me up here or at tumblr with comments, criticisms and suggestions!


	5. Invisible Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a lot longer than expected and it starts off a bit slow but ummmmm. symbolism and references to things are in there sooo redemption??? As always slang and translations in the end notes. Please keep the comments coming, they give me life!!!!

It was just before noon when Mccree received word that both Bristow and Anawi’s ground teams had made it to the perimeter of the warehouse complex. They’d had skirmishes with a few Talon border patrols but had slaughtered them with great speed and precision, saving the teams the grief of losing the element of surprise. Mccree had been on the edge of his seat in the comm tent, demanding Anawi check in with him almost hourly with updates on her position and Vetrov.

 

So far, he hadn’t been acting out of the norm, and gave no indication of plans to backstab the group the more they closed in on Talon. Anawi was guessing that Vetrov was playing the game for the long-run, and probably wouldn’t show his true colors today during the fight to come. Despite this, Mccree didn’t like the fact that a snake like Vetrov was watching her back, or Akami’s, Parikh’s….. _ anyone _ .

 

Mccree thumbs the muzzle and front sight of Peacekeeper. Safety on and ammunition unloaded first though, of course. The feeling of something so safe and solid in his hands was one of the few reliefs Mccree had on this mission. She’d been a collaborative gift from both Reyes and Amari for Jesse’s 19th birthday. Back then, gifts given for nothing in return and no strings attached was still a foreign concept to Mccree, maybe it still was--a little bit, and he’d immediately jumped on the defensive, unwilling to wield the .357 magnum revolver. He thought it was a ploy, a trick. He’d thought that his boss’ had finally shown their true colors and finally revealed themselves to be no better than the jumped up ganglords that ran Mccree’s existence back in Deadlock; desperate and willing to craft Mccree into the perfect killer, except this time with new and improved means of slaughter.

 

Reyes had been the one to hunt down a skulking Jesse hiding on the balcony above the bases storage bunker with the refused gift in one hand, and a folded piece of pink paper in the other. 

 

_ A literal fuckin’ pink slip. Fuck. _

 

Reyes had asked Jesse if it was ok to sit next to him, had asked if he could speak, asked for Jesse to respond, and had asked if it were ok to put a hand on his shoulder. Jesse would get like that sometimes, as much as he hated to admit it. When anything and  _ everyone  _ were suddenly perceived as threats. Every touch, no matter how harmless in nature it was, was blown out of proportion and perceived as the killing blow. It hurt to breath then. Lots of choking on air, rapid eye movement, sweating, trembling.

 

He’d learned there was a name for those times. Panic attacks.

 

_ Fan-Fuckin-Tastic _

 

Reyes sat with him that afternoon. Helped Jesse through the aftermath. Reyes had laid the folded paper with care on Jesse’s lap and upon further inspection, it wasn’t a notice of dismissal, the metaphorical ripping up of his get-out-of-jail-somewhat-free card, but a birthday card from Fareeha, handmade. She’d been 14 then, and still  _ very  _ much in her DIY, artsy moody teenager phase. He opened the folds and slowly read the card out loud to Reyes in a croaky,wet voice; reading was still a new concept  back then, and sometimes he needed help sounding out certain words.

 

He brushed the cartoonish-style drawing she made of him and her in it with his thumb, traced the little heart next to the ‘happy birthday!’ written in glittery blue pen ink. Slowly he turned and examined the gun in Reyes’ grip, locking eyes with the older man as if asking for permission. Reyes had pressed it solidly into his hands and let the touch of their hands linger, as if extending Jesse a very much needed anchor.

 

A beautiful gun, custom-made; the note attached to the gun from Miss Ana had said as much.

Peacekeeper. A good name, Reyes had said as much.

A grim, shitty purpose, Jesse had thought as much.

 

Jesse had never verbally thanked either of them for the gun, yet they knew gratitude when they saw it from him.

 

Mccree had shaken himself from the thought. Man. Was it him, or was this mission just that bad to where he’d rather  _ sit down  _ and actually  _ think about his actions? _ He huffed and reloaded Peacekeeper, carefully snapping her chamber back into place.

\--------------------

 

Jesse had left later on in the afternoon, and began his solitary trek south, towards the tunnel’s entrance. The more south he went, the more sparse the land seemed, until nothing but wide open fields remained, the grasses coming up in height to rest at Mccree’s waist in wispy sheets of yellow and off-white. Mccree regards the GPS on his mini-tab and learns that he is standing on the remains of part of Beausoleil, a former commune that was previously jointly shared by France and Monaco. It used to be all beaches, boardwalks, skyscrapers. Cities. Entirely industrialized. Mccree tries to envision it as he wades through the fields of nothingness. Soft sands and water at his feet instead of grasses and weeds smothering him from the waist down. He tries to envision the pleasant beating of a summer sun on his skin, but settles for the actuality of an overcast shadow, strangled by smouldering smog causing him to perspire. The mini-tab scans the ground for IED’s and yet for all of its advanced might, can’t pick up on the anomaly that suddenly sends Mccree tumbling to the ground. He’s quick on the uptake and tries to roll to the side out of habit but he is halted mid-crouch. There’s a pain around his left ankle and he looks down. A hunting snare of barbed wire bites into his shin and ankle and Mccree huffs in annoyance. It’s been modified to work for flat, tree-less terrain and a few flicks of Mccree’s utility knife has him free. His gloved hands closely inspect the wiring, it’s cruel and serrated, and unlike the standard barbed wiring he’s seen lining fences. There’s a smattering of brown on its length here and there, and Mccree can’t decide if it's rust or blood so he doesn’t and instead flings it away with disinterest.

 

He picks himself off, dusting the dirt and and bristles from the plant life off of him.

He pushes forward.

\------------------------

 

It is nearly dusk when Mccree reaches the tunnel entrance; it’s location somewhere amidst this plain of craggy hills and dipping valleys that seemingly sprang up from nowhere when compared to the rolling fields he spent hours walking through.

 

It’s unassuming and decrepit as Mccree found out, accidentally passing it for the third time. Finally he rounds on it, pressing his palms to the side of the craggy hills wall. 

 

_ Not a mountain Mccree, it’s got trees on it so it’s a hill, damnit.  _ He remembers Laurent’s clarification over the comm ruefully. He walks alongside its face, palms smoothing over the rocky surface, ripping off moss, vines and weeds as he goes. Mccree hears his mini-tab go off in pocket and immediately freezes in place; this must be it. His gloved hands search for deliberate cuts into the stone and rocks and he can’t help the half-cocked grin that forms once he’s found. He tears at the foliage savagely and bounces a bit in place when the entrance is in full view; unhindered by nature’s nuisances. He comms in with Anawi, passively mentioning he is at the tunnel's entrance and requests to know GT 1 and 2’s locations. Anawi pensively whispers her teams coordinates into the mic and further reassures Mccree that Vetrov has yet to strike or act suspicious.

 

As Mccree brushes away the last bits of foliage blocking the entrance, his hand catches on a particularly stubborn vine, he traces it down to its rooting by his foot. Another flick of the knife ends its campaign of tyranny against him. But the wildflower loosened by his actions stays his hand. It’s hazy blue in color, edged by indigo and green hues on the petal’s trim. He considers it, cutting it loose from the ground. He smiles, thinking of glittery blue pen ink on waxy pink paper. It’s Fareeha’s favorite color. Without a second thought, he tucks the plant into his tac-vests inner pockets with all the gentleness he can muster, as if the thing is made of glass and shoulders the boulder blocking his way to the side. He clicks on the rifle’s optics and journey’s in to meet the tunnel’s dark embrace.

 

Things move faster now. Mccree finds himself making double time down the tunnel’s winding corridor. The boots of his fake uniform squelch and shudder when they make contact with the muddy water underfoot. A further way down, Mccree can swear he hears the sounds of footsteps and mechanical movement above his head.

 

_ Reckon I’m right underneath their asses by now. _

 

Mccree presses a hand to the comm in his ear, eyes scanning the molding walls. He spots the crude heart shape made into the solid walls. ‘R + L’ is roughly chipped into the hearts middle. He wonders who made such markings, the larger-than-life terrorist thugs that now claimed ownership of this property, or the poor bastards who probably had to die to have this place taken from them?

 

“Ground Team 1, this is Blondie, over?” Mccree is greeted by momentary silence until the comm crackles back to life, Anawi’s voice is a blessing to the marginal blooming of worry in Mccrees gut. “This is Ground Team 1 Actual. Go ahead, over.”

 

“ ‘m currently in position below the objective, but I don’t seem to make out the entrypoint. I’m requestin’ clarification on where I should head next. I’ll send over my coordinates, over.”

 

More silence, as Anawi considers the facts. “There should be a hatch leading to the complex’s ground floor about 3 kliks north of your current position. Continue on ahead, Blondie. Over.”

 

Mccree nods to himself, “Understood, actual. Requesting current status of GT 1 & 2.” Mccree pasues. “Oh. Uh. Over.”

 

Anawi chuckles. “Sweet child, we are  _ still  _ fine. No casualties. No sightings. No enemy engagement as of yet, but that will soon change. All the same, we will be fine.  _ La taqlaq _ .” More silence. Mccree furrows his brows.

 

As an afterthought, Anawi sing-songs ‘over’ into the mic.

 

“.....understood. Blondie out”, Mccree grumbles into the comm, going turning it off before Anawi can start laughing at him again. Instead he changes his mind, and tunes into the public comm frequencies utilized by both ground teams.

 

It’s a fucking mess. A travesty, Reyes would’ve dubbed it. As Mccree continues walking towards his new objective, his ears are filled with the verbal vomiting of his coworkers. The sounds of very alive agents, however boisterous, comforts him. Their presence, solid and strong. Safe.

 

Peacekeepers in their own right.

 

He overhears Esparza and Laurent trading racist jokes about their own respective ethnicities to each other. Mccree rolls his eyes. Bristow banters with Parikh about where to find proper indian food outside of Asia. While Bristow argues London, Parikh laughs and dismisses the man entirely, claiming ‘anywhere but England’ will do.

 

Mccree hasn’t heard Parikh laugh since before Koppel got his brains shot out.

 

Mccree is quick to tune out the the provate channel used  _ only  _ by Holmes and Kennedy and almost turns the whole damn thing off until a blip on the mini-tab tells him that  _ Vetrov  _ is actively using a comm. With mounting interest, Mccree tunes in.

 

“---I’m just sayin’, Preacher. They’d really appreciate it if you agreed to officiate at their service.”

 

It’s Akami.

 

“And I’m telling  _ you _ ,  _ Zero. _ I’m not ordained! Besides….they are both Anglican, are they not?”

 

_ Vetrov….. _

 

Akami cackles, making Mccree wince at the pain it causes his ears.

 

“Puhhhh-lease! You think Holmes and Kennedy care about that? Besides, like you care what bland flavor of christian your friends are.”

 

Mccree has to hold back a snort. The mini-tab glows an angry red. He’s getting close to the hatch.

 

“It...it would not be right of me to take such an honor.”

 

_ Yer godamn-fuckin-right about that, friend. _

 

“Ummmmmm, wrong? Incorrect? Fake news?”

 

Vetrov snorts good-naturedly.

 

“-- It would be  _ wrong  _ of you to turn down the offer. Blackwatch means a lot to those two. To have one of their own preside over their wedding? It’d mean the world to them. C’mon, Preacher. Anyone can watch two love-sick idiots fill out paperwork in a court house. But...but sayin’ shit that matters to each others faces? Surrounded by loved ones and shit? Stuffed into uncomfortable-ass clothing and stuffing  _ themselves  _ with stupid-expensive food? That shit happens once in a lifetime. That  _ means  _ something.  _ You  _ mean something.”

 

_ Fuckin’ hit the nail on the head, Zero…. _

 

Vetrov knows his argument is weak now. “But….surely they would want someone more versed? Professional?”

 

“Rodion”, Akami warns flatly

 

Oh fuck, she used his first name.

 

\--“I know you take your christianity Russian flavored but all the same don’t think I didn’t see you and Mccree prayin’ it up before we left. I don’t think the fuckin’ pope’s more versed than you, buddy. You study religion for  _ fun. EUGH. _ ”

 

Mccree cringes. Vetrov laughs.

“Perhaps you have a point….Gwen. Tell the two brides-to-be that I would  _ love  _ to conduct the service for them. And that I…..”

 

“C’mon, handsome. You can say it. I won’t tell.” Akami’s tone is mocking but earnest.

 

Another airy laugh from Vetrov. He speaks directly into the comm, slightly muffled. Must not want anyone else to overhear him,

 

“Tell them that I….I love them dearly. Like sisters, and will do my best when the time comes.”

 

Mccree can feel the warmth in his words, the delicate lilting of the smile on his lips, and he almost allows it to hold him. That steady timbre of his voice as all embracing as the tunnels darkness;

 

Reyes’ hand on a shoulder. Peacekeeper in a palm. Fareeha’s birthday card.

The blue lily in Mccree’s breast pocket.

The choir of voices over the comms.

 

Peacekeepers. All of ‘em.

Steady, strong, solid.

Living and breathing embodiments of stability.

Peacekeepers in their own right.

 

_ Beautiful…….. _

_ A good name……… _

_ A- _

 

Mccree doesn’t finish the thought. Suddenly the comms shudder out a noise of alarm and all frequencies save for the main two go dark. 

 

Anawi screams out commands, status’. Ground Team 1 has been spotted closing in on the main complex building. They have begun engagement. Bristow jumps in, rallying his own team to lend support to their sister squad.

 

Mccree jumps as suddenly that line as well goes dead. The mini-tab stops blinking. Mccree finds the hatch and braces his palms against the overhead plating. The footsteps overhead accelerate from mere puttering to full on rushes. Muffled barking of orders enter the new tempo.

 

Mccree braces himself. Swallowing the lump in his throat gravely.

 

He plunges himself headfirst into the hellish light above him and prays.

 

_ Lord have mercy. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pink slip-Notice of dismissal.  
> -Oh yea btw Mccree is like 21-23 around here soo yea he's my son.  
> -Referring to someone as 'actual' just means that your addressing the commander of a certain team/unit/company.  
> La taqlaq- "dont worry" in arabic. used address a male.  
> -Akami's callsign, Zero, is a reference to the Japanese fighter aircraft from the WW2 era.
> 
> hooooo boy strap in guys the next chapters will be Not Kind TM  
> apologies for the length and wait time of/for the chapter, i'll try to make them longer in the future.thanks for reading!


	6. Over Yonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gabe and ana are Good Parents.
> 
> also writing this chapter was therapeutic so enjoy....?

Captain Ana ‘Horus’ Amari leans with both her back and left leg bent at the knee against the wall just outside Commander Reyes’ office. Her arms are crossed, eyes closed, head shaking. The feds from America have been in there for three hours as of now--scratch that-- Ana consults the tac-watch on her right hand-- it’s been three and a half hours.

 

Ana glances at Gabriel’s secretary, Nora--good woman, bad hair-- who turns to locks eyes with her. Nora’s eyes flit from Ana’s face to the door, her thin, red lips quirked in a worried frown. Ana blinks slowly at her, and smiles reassuringly. Enough is enough. Ana steps off from her rest against the wall and stalks over to the door. Ana knows better than to try and persuade Athena to open it now, so all she can do is grip the door’s handle and steady her breathing. Suddenly a large, sudden clamor can be heard from inside. Gabriel barks something indiscernible and suddenly the door flies open. Ana is quick to step out of the way to avoid being run over by two sullen men dressed in sharp, black suits. The older of the two is entirely red in the face with frustration and slams his informational card on Nora’s desk, he growls out a warning  that they will be back, before he stalks out; a hand pressed to a comm in his ear. The younger agent, glances apologetically inside of Reyes’ office before bleating out a hasty ‘thank you for your cooperation’ to Nora and exiting.

 

Nora looks so badly like she wants to enter, to ask what's wrong, but instead all she can do is wordlessly suck in a breath and stare at Ana. She smiles at the elderly secretary and places a grounding hand on her shoulder before braving the storm and entering Gabriel’s office, closing the door behind her with a unhurried urgency.

 

Once upon a time, Gabriel’s office had matched Jack’s to a tee; spartan, professional, modern and void of any personal touches, as if the room was on loan, as if its inhabitants were strangers in anothers house. But that’s changed. Sure it’s still organized, still neat. This  _ is Gabriel  _ she’s talking about here, but the feel is different. There’s drawings made by a toddler Fareeha cluttered lovingly together on a corkboard on the adjacent wall; most depict airplanes,birds and cartoon superheros.Ana’s favorite of her daughter’s scribblings; a depiction of Fareeha hand in hand with her Uncle’s Jack and Gabe on either side, is tucked safely inside of Gabriel’s center desk draw.

 

She  _ knows _ .

 

Ana’s impervious gaze catches the framed photo on the far wall. In it, stands a young Gabriel; clad in his  marine corps formal uniform. He has a solid arm around one of his seven kid sisters; Ariel-- if Ana is not mistaken, at her law school graduation ceremony. Her vision of the photo is obscured by Gabriel’s massive form, pacing back and forth behind his desk. His face is stone, his shoulders pulled as taut as a bowstring, and his legs restless; carrying him in a set course that spans his office.

 

Ana leans forward on the back of one of the discarded chairs thrown haphazardly to the side by the departed agents.

 

“Rough day at the office?” Ana purrs automatically, baring him her best photo-friendly grin. She gets no response. Knowing Gabriel, that means he’s either thinking to much right now, or trying not to at all. Both are very bad for him. She softens up immediately, standing upright and cautiously approaching, a wandering hand outstretched.

 

“Gabriel?”

 

He stops, facing the hanging photograph of him with his parents at their 30th wedding anniversary. His mother, ruddy-faced and beaming clutches onto her dashing young son in the same military uniform with one arm, and her weathered, bean-pole of a husband in the other.

 

“Yea?” He responds, clipped. Emotionless. Less like a question and more like a statement.

 

“Is…..who were they?”

 

“Gerard didn’t tell you?” Gabriel mutters, still not facing Ana. “Shit, he tells you everything--”

 

“He mentioned they are from the US…..federal agents from the justice departme--”

 

“They’re fucking FBI, Ana,” Gabriel forces his ‘f’s’ out painfully.

 

Ana says nothing, her ungloved hand drops to graze his arm carefully, reassuringly. An anchor seeking purchase in the oceans vast deep. Gabriel does not shy away from the touch. He never does. Her eyes search the middle distance, biting back the many questions tangling on her tongue, settling on asking the most important first.

 

“Are you okay, Gabriel?”

 

Not, ‘is everything ok.’ Not ‘what’s going on.’ Not, ‘what have you done now?’ Ana’s first and foremost priority after Fareeha is the wellbeing of everyone else other than herself. She is and will always be designated mama bear of Overwatch and then some. Gabriel and Jack may tear themselves up into pieces about The Mission, The Brass,leadership and whatever else, but Ana’s concerns have always been humanistic in practice; The Team and its health above all else.

 

Gabriel doesn’t look forward to the day ‘if and when’ Ana Amari is no longer there to keep the peace, keep them all alive.

 

“Not--not really, Ana. But thanks for asking.” She ‘tsks’ behind him.

 

“Can I ask you why?”

 

“Oh you can ask alright, you just won’t get a real answer, is all.” Gabriel feels the light smack on his arm, but does nothing about it. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know that Captain Ana Amari has her hands on her hips, her sharp lips pulled into a befuddled frown; exuding maternal annoyance.

 

She takes a shot in the dark, and for once in her life, entirely misses.

 

“Has Jack done something? Did you two have another argument?”

 

Gabriel snorts. Wrong.

 

“Is it about Blackwatch?”

 

“In a way.”

 

“The organization as a whole?”

 

“I’d say more like a fraction.”

 

“.......about a person  _ in  _ Blackwatch?”

 

Gabriel shakes his head, not in refutation, but due to a heavily veiled weariness. “I wish it wasn’t.”

 

Ana huffs.

 

“Whatever it is, you  _ can  _ tell me. I’m your friend, or had you forgotten? Besides, it is not like I’ll immediately go running off to go tell anyone your deepest,darkest secrets you know. Not like I’ll go tattle on you to Jack or--”

 

“You’re goddamn right you won’t tell fucking Jack.”

 

Ana quirks a grin he can’t see. Hook, line, and sinker. Gabriel sighs and turns to gaze at Ana, who immediately schools her expression to look more exasperated more than anything.

 

The stony face has chipped slightly. The bowstring shoulders slump marginally. His legs root him to the ground, gluing him in place to withstand Ana’s judgement. He’s tired. That much she can tell. His eyes are glassy and bloodshot from a lack of sleep, and his normally dark complexion had paled some; he hasn’t been outside much lately. Ana can see that Gabriel’s hair is getting longer again as she spies the tight, dark curls just begin to peek out from under his hood. She smiles at him, braces his arms with her hands, and gently guides him into sitting down on the ground behind his desk. They sit criss-crossed across from one another,not even a foot apart,  neither one willing to break eye contact. Both of them stubborn to the last. They make an awkward picture just then, those two. Surprisingly Gabriel is the first to speak.

 

“The feds are trying to extradite one of my agents.”

 

Ana fires back, right to business then. “One what grounds?”

 

“On the grounds of this agent having a criminal record a couple miles long. On the grounds that this agent never truly had immunity from their charges, and that for years I have been  _ obstructing justice  _ by  _ keeping him out of US custody _ ,” Gabriel parrots out bitterly.

 

Ana’s brows knit in concern. “Years? Why have they waited until now to do something about your  _ obstruction _ , hm?”

 

Gabriel’s frown deepens, he deadpans. “It’s fucking election year back home and somebody’s reelection rides on keeping incarceration numbers up. At least, I think that’s  _ part  _ of it.”

 

“Ah.” Ana states, bemused.

 

“Ah.” Gabriel confirms,snarling.

 

Ana digs in her pocket, pulling out the snack bag intended for Fareeha after she gets out of karate practice. She digs out the crackers and cheese, and shakes the package good-naturedly at Gabriel, wiggling her eyebrows as a show of goodwill. Gabriel’s face doesn’t shift an inch, but he takes the bait, tearing at the plastic with unfocused speed.

 

So much for him not telling her shit.

 

Ana scooches closer to Gabriel and rests her palms on the insides of her knees.

 

Like any practised and well-versed parent dealing with a ruefully silent child who acts like they’ve been scolded, she deigns to wait him out. Several minutes(and snacks) later, Gabriel mutters darkly, “I don’t know what to do Ana. I can stall ‘em. Give ‘em the runaround, but I don’t know how much else.”

 

Ana hums in thought. “I wasn’t aware you had agents that could warrant so much attention, or criminal records for that matter. After all, only the _ best and brightest _ get into your clandestine operation.” She shimmies her shoulders with faux-arrogance for comedic effect. No response again.

 

Gabriel squints. Either in thought, or in nothing at all.

 

All or nothing. Just like Jack.

 

Ana’s face hardens, she’ll have to play devil’s advocate to get more than disgruntled silence out of him. “It is one agent, Gabriel. Surely you could learn to make do without them. And besides, if they are so dangerous as to  _ still  _ warrant being on America’s watchlist, do you truly wish to have such an individual remain?”

 

Gabriel shakes his head imperceptibly, Ana is caught off guard at the softening of his tone, it is the same one he would use when chiding her daughter for one minor infraction or another. The same tone he used to comfort Ana herself when her relationship with Fareeha’s father went to hell.

 

The same tone he used to tell Jack he loved him in.

  
  


“I can’t let them take him. Not him. Not now. Anyone but him.”

 

“I suppose this agent must be rather high up on your food chain then? Is he one of your officers, someone privy to  information you’d rather not let out of house?”

 

“No, not yet, and yes.”

 

Ana frowns. Gabriel stares point blank, “what? I answered your questions. And  _ in order  _ if I might add.” Ana opens her mouth to press further when Gabriel scrubs a hand against the side of his face harshly and slow.

 

“I won’t let him go, Ana. I won’t let them....I tried to argue his skill; talked up how useful he is the the organization. When that didn’t work I stressed that since his service to Blackwatch he hasn’t stepped a toe out of line, that it was his surroundings, his environment that made him that way, a criminal.  _ That  _ didn’t work. I just-- after how far he’s come...they just wanna hang him anyway, and they just handed me the fucking noose to do it with.”

 

Ana wracks her brain for who this agent could be, and the more she knits Gabriel’s words together, the more she thinks, the more she wishes she hadn't.” Her mouth opens slowly, her voice has dropped to be deathly low. Her heart is a cold anchor in her stomach, seeking purchase in the oceans vast deep.

  
  


“Who is this agent, Gabriel?”

 

“They won’t believe me. They--they really think he hasn’t--- _ can’t  _ change. I tried to tell them, offered to  _ show  _ them.

 

“Gabriel.”

 

“I’m running out of fuckin’ options, Ana. I sent him on some extended mission to buy me some more time but evac is in another three days the  _ latest. _ ”

 

Ana’s jaw tightens. Fareeha had been complaining that a certain someone hadn’t been on base lately to help her with her history homework.

 

_ I don’t know when he gets back, mother. Uncle Gabe said they needed him a bit longer-- _

 

“--They don’t fucking see it, Ana. They don’t want to, even if everyone else does. They’re as black-and-fucking-white morality as Jack is--”

 

“ _ Jabril.”  _ Ana must look as panicked as Gabriel feels right now; she can’t tell. Fear mounting in her throat, Fareeha’s scribbled smiling faces bore holes into the back of her head from the corkboard.

 

The stone crumbles now, Gabriel's mouth twists into a snarl, he speaks with pure vitriol at everything and nothing in particular. His shoulders go bowstring tight but his facial expressions are anything but reserved. He shoots up from his seat on the ground, storming over to his desk, slamming his palms on the table. His eyes are searching for something and nothing in particular at the same time.

 

“They’ll have to pry him from my cold, dead fucking hands”, he growls. “It took  _ years  _ to fix his shit--I promised him I wouldn’t let anyone else fuck him up. Not now, not ever!”

 

Ana stumbles as she stands, she plays it off by rounding on him, palms flat on the other side of the desk. She calls him by his name again, but he’s not listening.

 

_ “My  _ agent,  _ my  _ responsibility--”

 

The solid, uniformed arm around Ariel, around his ruddy-faced mother, and stick-figure father is not one just of brotherly or filial affection. But of protection. An anchor. Strong, stable and steady. An unveiled threat, a challenge to the potential dangers that jeopardize his loved ones.

 

_ You come at the king, you best not miss. _

 

“Gabriel,  _ please!” _

 

“ _ My!--.”  _ Gabriel barks out, before he sucks in a quiet breath. His fingers tap the solid oak repeatedly. He clears his throat, going silent again. When he looks up again, his face has defaulted to what it once was just hours ago. Blank and defaultly neutral; his mouth set in a permanent frown. No longer a hissing, spitting vehicle of anger, directed at Everything and The Nothing. Whatever he was about to say dies in his throat and snaps him back to The Now.

 

“I’ve got 72 hours to voluntarily turn Jesse over to the authorities before they’re fully authorized to collect him themselves. I’ve already called the department’s head but his hands are tied. I asked Lacroix to try and put some pressure on the french minister who still holds some sway internationally, but it's a no go; the good ol’ US of A overpowers any other nation’s influence over the UN…...someone wants this kid locked up bad, all these years later.

 

_ Some asshole wants to lock up my kid all these years later. _

 

It goes unsaid. But Ana gets the message all the same.

 

“Gabriel. I think you need to tell Jack. He  _ could  _ help. I’m sure if you just--”

 

“We’ve been over that. Jack wouldn’t help. He and Jesse get along like a house on fire. Jack’s the one that wanted me to toss the kid behind bars and throw away the key. I don’t think that’s changed much.”

 

“But you don’t  _ know  _ that for sure. People’s minds  _ do  _ change after all.”

 

“Not Jack’s. Not about Jesse. I mean, Jesus Christ, it took the kid almost getting blown away trying to protect your ass for  _ you  _ to start trusting him.

 

Ana frowns, but says nothing. She knows better than to lie to Gabriel. She remembers those early days well. Remembers that co-op mission in Lisbon that went so very wrong towards the end. How her lips curled in disgust when  _ his  _ name showed up on the mission roster. How very hard he tried not to make direct eye-contact, how he tried so very desperately to shrink himself, take up less room, be less of an offense by merely existing in her presence. She remembers thinking;  _ Criminal. Dangerous. Stray. Gangbanger. Terrorist. Blackwatch’s Charity Case. Keep him away from my daughter, Gabriel or I’ll kill him myself. _

 

Captain Ana Amari could confidently say that there were very few times in her life where she was entirely in The Wrong. Jesse was one of those Few Times. She knew she was wrong about him when the mission had entered its last phase.

 

The short-lived portuguese terrorist group, the  _ Quarentena  _ had a main cell in the capital city. With the combined efforts of Overwatch and Blackwatch operatives, the cell was decimated, until only a few stragglers remained. They had been rounded up and detained. Captain Amari had emerged from her sniping position and made her way over to regroup with the other agents, cradling her rifle in her arms. The danger had passed; she’d foolishly believed. Jesse had cut her off. Standing directly in front of her, his back to the crowd of prisoners. He had told her that Reyes wanted to meet with her first before she debriefed her agents. Ana had rolled her eyes and pushed past him. He followed suit, dogging her, unwilling to take no for an answer. She’d rounded on him with a cold fury,  _ her  _ back now to the crowd. She hadn’t seen the lone prisoner spring to his feet, hadn’t seen the concealed automatic sidearm he’d hidden away from the very green Overwatch agents who performed the pat downs. She  _ had _ heard the ungodly screech he let out before he pulled the trigger;

_ “DEATH TO THE OVERWATCH DOGS!” _

 

That split second after had come and went. And after it she found herself on the ground, lying facedown on portuguese pavement. She heard another shot. The lone gunman had been killed; his head blown off by shotgun shells. There’d been yelling, panic, confusion. When the dust settled, Captain Ana Amari; renowned sniper, certified field medic and war hero, mother of one, staggered to her feet in shock. She patted her torso, ran a gloved hand over the back of her head, blinking. She felt the adrenaline high that came with almost having one’s head blown off peel off of her in waves, but was otherwise fine.

 

Slowly, slowly she patted at her breastplate, shifting her body as she did so. She made the mistake of looking down. Looking to her side,open-mouthed, she saw  _ him.  _

 

Jesse Mccree, eighteen years old, serving active duty for seven months thus far, was there on the ground where she had once stood. Sputtering, clutching his chest in agony, screaming. Five angry bullet holes punched their way through his body armor. Decorating his stomach and chest sporadically like an unsolvable game of connect-the-dots. He was curling in on himself on instinct, appearing smaller than he really was.

 

Shrunk in on himself. Took up less room, mind the blood seeping onto the pavement.

 

She’d raced over to him without a second thought.

 

_ Criminal. Dangerous. Stray.  Gangbanger. Terrorist--- _

 

No. Wrong. So wrong.

Wrongwrongwrong.

 

She thought she was wrong during that last phase of the mission. But during the transport home post-mission. She  _ knew  _ she was wrong. She was certified in first aid, and the only combat medic on the transport; the others had stayed behind to help with local relief. She’d dug the bullets out of his stomach, ripped the rest out of  the shattered body armor that was currently in pieces lodged in his chest and neck.

 

_ Defective equipment. _

 

Kept him pumped full of biotics and fluids, kept him from bleeding out. While Reyes screamed and cursed at the Overwatch agents for their carelessness and lack of vigilance, his eyes constantly darting between Jesse’s prone form and the group of scolded agents, Ana gave Jesse enough pain meds to kill a small horse. She couldn’t tell if it was the painkillers or the lack of blood that made him loopy, hallucinating. But there he laid, blinking up at Ana with glassy, unfocused eyes. His breaths were raspy and Ana laid a firm hand on his head to keep him from sitting up. His adam's apple bobbed inconsistently, he made strangled noises of discomfort while he clenched and unclenched his fists.

 

He was trying to say something.

“I……..I’m sorry I pushed you, ma’am, w-with ou-t yer permiss-ion” He choked out breathlessly. “ ‘m sorry….touch-touchin’ a lady….sorry…”

 

It took everything in Ana not to gape, not give away anything on her features.

 

“Shhh. Easy. It is...alright. Just--just lay back and stay there. It is quite alright.”

 

“R-eally?”

 

Ana nodded grimly at him,  her smile didn’t reach her eyes; eyes which refused to meet Jesse’s.

 

“Yes. Really.”

 

Another pause. Jesse tried to blink away the haziness but failed. “Then… I guess ‘m sorry to disappoint you.”

 

“Disappoint me?”

 

“Yea.”

 

“How so? How have you disappointed me?” Ana asks, slightly intrigued.

 

“I don’t quite live up to yer standards anymore s’all…...not quite whatcha thought….I--I  _ wish.  _ Shit, it’d be easier if I  _ was--” _

 

“Was  _ what _ , Mccree?--”

 

“I wish I was the monster y’all think me to be.”

 

Ana’s eyes snapped to his then, widened. Jesse’s eyes are watery and bleary. His mouth was still parted, teeth slightly bared.

 

They were stained red.

 

He’s somewhat hysterical now. Coughing out pained laughs and gasping after each one.

 

“It’d be…. _ so _ much easier to just---just  _ be……. _ wouldn’t be lettin’ nobody down then. It’s a good day when a monster dies…it’d be  _ fittin’. _ Wouldn’t havta pretend to be somethin’ ‘m not no more. No more gettin’ m’hopes up……”

 

Ana takes in a breath.

 

“No more foolin’ m’self.”

 

Whatever Jesse means to say next he doesn’t. He thinks it out loud instead. Whatever it is makes him burst out laughing, full hysterics which in turn makes him writhe in pain, yelling. He begins to bleed through the bandages. Ana grips Jesse by the shoulders, panicked, her eyes darting all over his features.

 

Eventually she manages to sedate him again, with greater success. His eyelids droop closed. The clawing at his own gauze-swathed abdomen halts as he goes limp.

 

Ana is wrong.

_ Criminally  _ wrong.  _ Dangerously  _ wrong. And every other type of incorrect lying in between.

 

But she thinks of none of this. Her ears are stuffed with cotton, mind filled with static as she fruitlessly attempts to wipe the blood from his hands. She elevates his head with her discarded strike coat of cerulean blue.

 

Blue is not his color. It’s a soft, sunset orange or yellow. Or a bright red. But she’s had enough red for today, as has Jesse, so she pushes the thought away.

 

Warm, calloused hands sift and sort through wayward locks of sable brown hair sticking to his sweat-slick face. She casts him an unseen weather-worn smile. She resists the sudden surge in her chest, the urge to press her lips--chapped and sun-kissed to his forehead. Ana instead limits herself to squeezing his hand with the steady fingers of her own.

 

She remains by his side the entire ride back to base.

  
  


“--And even now it’s not all rosy. Most of the team still won’t give him the time of day. Did you know that he and Angela are  _ just  _ on the mend right now? There’s no way I can amount enough support to get the US off my ass as of now--”

 

“They will not take him.” Ana states. Not an exclamation. Not a threat, not a hope, nor a wish. It is a fact. It is as much the truth in Ana’s mind as water is wet.

 

The finality in her voice stops Gabriel in his tracks. He nods. Once.

 

“We will do whatever it takes.  _ Everything  _ it takes.”

Gabriel nods again, brows scrunched.

 

Ana’s eyes narrow. “ _ Everything. _ I  _ mean  _ it Gabriel Reyes.”

 

“I….follow?”

 

“Good!” Ana pipes up, standing tall and away from the desk. Her strike suit of a spotless cerulean blue swishes with the sway of her walk. “I’m so glad that you follow.”

 

“Now then. Throw out your wrappers. Tell Nora you won’t be taking anymore calls today, get Liao to cover for you at field training, and let’s get going.”

 

She consults her tac-watch; a rather sensible Valentine's Day gift from Reinhardt.  _ Perfect  _ timing.

 

“....Going. Where to?” Gabriel’s gait is unsure but steady. He shoves the snack wrappers in his pocket.

 

Ana turns to him, eyes twinkling, mouth curved in a mock, half-cocked grin that mirrors Jesse’s own almost to a tee. The look, admittedly,  sends a shiver down Gabriel’s spine.

 

“The Assembly Hall. We’ve got a meeting to interrupt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs my grubby little hands all over the gabe/jesse/ana parent dynamic* yeeees yessss good,,,,,  
> so um. i start college tomorrow so things may slow down?possibly?whenever i do update from now on, it'll most likely be on sundays.  
> cheers!


	7. Soon Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bad times my friends. tw for blood, violence, choking, implied child abuse and all that fun jazz. but heyyyyy this chapters out a day early and i managed to squeeze it under 4,000 words so yay? translations and all that jazz is in the end notes.

For the first time during this entire mission, Mccree was glad he had forgone his  _ Yayo’s  _ wide-brimmed hat in favor of a tac helmet. It dulled the glare of the harsh, industrial lights that assaulted him through the helmet’s goggles. He was quick to survey the surroundings while he locked the floor hatch door back into place. He hefted the rifle across his chest, his hands taking on a much harsher grip on the gun than normal. It did nothing to calm his nerves.

 

Thank god Peacekeeper was in a concealed holster on his inner thigh.

The blue daylily for Fareeha was still pressed against his heart in his tac-vest.

 

The comms were still eerily silent, and when Mccree attempted to restart the frequencies, his ears were filled with a miserable, electronic chirping interrupted by brief periods audible static. Frowning, he ripped the comm out of his ear and shoved it in his pocket, exiting the little storage room he’d been led to. On the other end of the hall, Talon foot troops were gearing up; hefting and loading weapons, tuning up comms and yelling at each other. Other personnel darted from one room to the other,shuffling papers and tossing out angry commands at officers on their way. Mccree felt a sudden swell of dread in his throat, and quickened his pace towards the chaos in the main loft at the end of the seemingly  _ very  _ long hall. Mccree tried to make himself look busy, like one of them. He unloaded and reloaded the rifle, while his eyes scanned for signs and directions to different parts of the warehouse. The office holding the intel was  _ supposed  _ to be on this floor, but from what he could tell, this main floor operated as more of a staging area with rec lofts and seemingly smaller storage units.

 

No. Not just storage. These were living units.  _ Bedrooms  _ for agents. Talon agents.

Mccree frowned, as if he half-expected Talon soldiers to not sleep. Not need accommodations or break rooms.

Not be humans with human needs.

 

Mccree tunes into a conversation between two officers trickling in from his left.

 

“--And I’m telling  _ you _ , Russell. It’s probably nothing. Probably a few kids from the next town over decided to fuck around and come poking around the warehouse. Or maybe some dogs.”

 

“Fucking dogs that can climb fences, Lacy? A whole pack, fifteen at  _ least _ ,  _ Lacy _ ?!No. Someone  _ knows  _ we’re here. Just like how they knew we were here when they seized that goddamn airfield from us the other day. They  _ overran  _ Murdock’s outpost teams stationed there. Not to mention that McLoughlin’s patrol team hasn’t checked in since this morning.

 

‘Lacy’ shakes her head. At least, Mccree thinks she’s a her. The voice changers and bulky uniforms make it hard to tell.

 

She goes silent. ‘Russell’ snorts and shakes his head. 

 

“It’s fucking Blackwatch. That french sonofabitch finally sicked the big dogs on us, and those mutts don’t stop till some UN asshole yanks them back by their tails hard enough.”

Lacy turns her head away. “I’m aware…. It’s just--it’d be nice to pretend that we didn’t have the Justice League on steroids after us, Rus.”

 

A few squads have formed up and are bolting out the door. Ready to take the fight to the good guys without a second thought. Mccree would comm it in, but he’s isolated from any semblance of his own team in every sense of the word.

 

Russell nods and turns his head like he’s having a conversation with himself. He sighs and taps Lacy’s arm with his hand.

 

“You--you should get your squad formed up. Looks like we’re in for a firefight. And I don’t wanna keep you any longer.” Lacy nods, silent. She goes to leave when Russell mumbles growls something under his breath and suddenly grabs her by the arm. Her head swivels to meet his. Mccree feels extremely awkward, and he unloads his rifle again, his head down.

 

“Lace…..” His gloved hand reaches up and grazes the side of her concealed face tenderly. She leans into the touch.

 

“As for the other thing--we-- we’ll talk more about it later, I promise. Just---just be careful out there….and be patient with me?”

 

Mccree can’t see anyone’s face, but he can feel the warmth of her smile penetrate through her mask.

 

“I think I could manage that, as long as you promise the same.”  She covers his outstretched hand with her own and squeezes it briefly. And with that, she and five other Talon operatives leave.

 

Mccree exits so he doesn’t have to watch Russell watch her go.

 

So he doesn’t have to hear the faint, “I do” Russell murmurs out to her.

 

\-----------

The ground floor is a no go. As is the second floor of the housing complex. Mccree snags a warehouse directory off the front of an office door and makes his way up to the third and final floor. Just has his feet step up off the stairs platform, gunshots ringing out below him. On instinct, Mccree throws himself to the metallic flooring and waits.

 

Waits for the end to the gunfire that does not come. 

 

Amidst the screaming and weaponry, Mccree can still swear he hears the comms static lining his hearing. He slowly picks himself off the ground and begins to sweep the floor for the intel office. The comm in his pocket bleeps in alarm, and he seizes on it, stuffing it back into his ear. The frequency has defaulted to the comm line between GT leaders.

 

Mccree is still unable to comm in himself.

 

“--ound Team 1 Actual this is Ground Team 2 Actual, do you copy?!”

 

That’s Bristow.

 

Anawi’s responding trill fill’s Mccree’s ears. But it’s in choppy, stunted audio bits.

 

“--lid copy. Go--head.”

 

“Prea-cher has a vis--l on the sniper pinning you---- at position, get ready to move, over.”

 

“Underst--d, ov--r.”

 

_ Vetrov _ . Mccree doesn’t count on that sniper going down. 

 

More gunfire. Bristow pauses and then begins to exclaim, “------be advised------mobile insurgents----consolida---at ---!” 

 

Anawi’s tone hardens in dismay, “Popcorn, come again----over--”

 

The comm clicks again and Mccree can  _ hear  _ the breath Bristow takes to answer, until a rather large crack of a bullet finding purchase in flesh is heard. Instead, Bristow screams into the comm and his side of the chatter goes dead.

 

“Ground Team 2 Actual! Re--port your status, over!  _ Ground Team 2 Actual, REPORT-- _ ”

 

The comms are quiet again. Mccree has cleared half of the offices and storage units on this floor in the meantime. The cold burn of fear in the back of his throat now icily numbs his whole head. That’s when he spots  _ it _ .

 

At the end of the room, a door leading to a lone catwalk connects this building to an extension of the complex. Another office, if the dim lighting he spots through the window is anything to go by.

 

As Mccree races along the catwalk, the  synthetic metal of his boots against metal floor grating jarrs him. The muted ‘plinking’ sound reminds Mccree of the metal fencing guarding the summit gardens back at HQ. The sound parallels the noises the fencing makes when Fareeha takes a stick and runs it against the railings length, hitting every bar on her way down the line.

 

She turns to him, smiling, laughing, because she’s a  faster runner than him; faster because Mccree lets her be. The Swiss summer sun behind her shines like a halo around the short, raven locks that frame her heart-shaped face. Her tawny skin crinkles at the eyes and accentuates the already prominent laugh lines adorning her smile.

 

_ Plink     Plink      Plink _

 

With a grunt, and three good swings, Mccree uses his rifle to bust down the final office door. The butt of the rifle smashes the electronic lock into an uncountable amount of pieces.

 

As soon as the door hits the ground, the dim lighting goes out. With an annoyed huff, Mccree turns on the headlights that frame the tac-goggles of the helmet and the optics on his rifle. There on a lone desk, sits a computer hooked up to a holo-comm. Mccree rounds on it, pulling out a flash drive and plugging it into the interface, it automatically starts to seek information for encryption and extraction. He thinks back on Mrs.Lacroix’s words, and from the sound of it, even  _ The Brass  _ wasn’t sure what they were looking for, so he deigns to download and document it all. The lone screen of the computer glows a hellish violet; reminiscent of poison foxgloves and Mrs. Lacroix’s lipstick. While the flash drive consumes the computers intel, Mccree begins sifting through filing cabinets. The gunfire hasn’t stopped, nor have the comm’s come back online, but there’s nothing he can do about it, so he blocks it--them-- out of mind for now.

 

Mccree undoes the small latches hooking the tac-helmet into place and removes the goggles. He sucks in the relatively fresh air and coughs miserably; a permanent side effect of smoking anything he could find in a rolled up dollar bill since he was thirteen years old.

 

_ You know, smoking’s bad for your health.  _ Angela’s tinny voice chides him. Even here. Even now.

 

_ Yes, Ange.  _ Mccree thinks back. Even in his mind, he’s yessing her to death.

  
  


Amongst the contacts, shipping manifests, and schedules, Mccree finds a property deed in the bottom drawer. The original warehouse and airfield belonging to ‘New Hope’, an international freighting company, owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Lennard and Ryella Favreau. He shoves the deed inside his vest as well, it crinkles into place next to the wrinkled flower on his person.

 

Mccree is kneeling when he feels an odd flickering at the edge of his peripherals, when he hears the soft shifting of oxfords on linoleum flooring. Mccree turns his head just in time to take a ceramic vase to the head.

 

He falls backwards.

 

The shadowy figure above him screeches something indiscernible in french and climbs on top of him, nervous but strong hands wrap around his throat and squeeze with all their might. A bolt of adrenaline shot through Mccree’s veins, seizing him into action despite the blow to his head leaving him disoriented. Mccree allows the years of training and simulations to overtake him, and his mind fills with a familiar static.

 

The figure is still yelling as he tightens his grip on Mccree’s throat; his mind is all static, but his body is all coiled, suppressed fear and coached muscle.

For a moment there, Mccree is fifteen again; 

 

_ Red-faced and gasping, clawing fruitlessly at the grip tightening around his throat. Mccree begs for air, for mercy with whatever slivers of oxygen his lungs can steal. Ol’ Blue Eyes; one of the Boss’ lieutenant’s only glowers and tightens it further. _

 

_ “I’ll teach ya ta steal from me, ya little shit.” Blue Eyes is only answered with more choking gasps. _

 

_ Jesse’s desperate panic only accelerates to a sense of blind, animalistic terror as he’s shoved against the wall, feels the man’s disgustingly moist breath in his ear, as hears Ol’ Blue Eyes reach down for his pocket knife. _

 

_ Jesse still has the jagged scar over one of his eyebrows where the hairs refuse to grow any longer. _

 

_ It was only a canteen. It was only water. That and a few cigarettes--okay maybe more than a few cigarettes-- but that’s all, he swears. But that don’t matter none. _

 

_ It didn’t matter none ‘cause he don’t matter none. _

 

_ He would never matter none. _

 

_ Not to them. _

 

_ Not to anyone. _

 

The purple hue of the computer's screen lights the room, it highlights the savage, anxious gleam in his attacker’s blue eyes--that spurs Mccree back into action. He answers the chokehold by hooking his legs around his assailants; locking him in place. He grabs one of their forearms with his hands and uses all his might to tilt his attacker down and to the side. As soon as the grip on Mccree’s throat is no more, he sucks in air as if he’ll never breath again and throws the other man to the side. Unthinking, Mccree clamors on top of the man and begins punching. Beating. Pummeling.

 

His mind is still static. He doesn’t think of the way cartilage, bone and blood squelch from underneath his fists. How it splatters against the dimly lit floors of almost pristine white. He doesn’t think of the person’s shrieks, their pleas for mercy, how they are wearing a lab coat, how they attacked him with a vase, and not a gun or knife.

 

They’re a noncombatant. A civilian. A terrorist, but a civilian terrorist all the same.

 

He doesn’t recognize when the pleas stop, when the struggling stops--how his fists nor his harsh breathing don’t.

 

The shrill cackling that emanates from the computer stops Mccree in his bloody tracks--his fist still raised ready to deliver another post-mortem blow.

 

Mccree turns just a second too late. He doesn’t see the pixelated purple skull that has just fled from his sight. The flash drive pops out of the port,signaling that all valuable intel has been extracted and burned onto the USB.

 

He comes off the adrenaline high and slowly his senses and mind come flooding back to him. He takes the drive with a gloved, bloody hand. He winces slightly at the squelching sound it makes when he tucks the stick into his pocket. 

 

Mccree shifts the the comm’s frequency to reach Laurent, who waits back at what remains of Blackwatch’s ground team base. That seems to be the only reliable frequency that Mccree can actually use as of this moment.

 

Mccree tries to steel his hoarse voice into something more stable. To muster up some semblance of stability in himself.

 

Peacekeeper in the palm of his hand. Reyes’ palm on his shoulder.

 

A daylily for Fareeha. An elbow, wink, and coy smile for Miss Ana.

 

A comm line full of jabbering Blackwatch agents.

 

“Ground Team Base this is Blondie, over.”

 

“Blondie, this is Ground Team Base, standing by to copy, over.”

 

“I--I have the data, ‘m forwardin’ it to your mini-tab now. Interrogative my next objective, if ya don’t mind, over.”

 

“Rendezvous with the Ground Team Actual’s, they need to be the one’s to comm me in for formal evac, and they haven’t been answering their comms since they made first contact with hostiles in the warehouse.”

 

Mccree raises an eyebrow.

 

“Eugh. Over.”

 

Mccree’s laugh is tinged with a returning hysteria. “‘It’s probably ‘cause they don’t know you’ve been tryna reach ‘em! Our fuckin’ comms ‘r fubar. And I don’t know how you expect me ta just waltz in there in the middle of a firefight just to tell--”

 

“Wait. The fightings still going on? I do not hear anymore conflict?”

 

Mccree holds a breath. He pauses. Laurent is right, no more gunshots. No more yelling. Yet the tumor of dread lodged in his being still remains. His sweat still cold on his skin.

 

“Ground Team Base I’ll...get back to ya. Just--just hang in there for my next transmission. Be patient with me.” 

Another breath out. Breathe in, breathe out.

 

Like the cap on a zippo lighter. Open and close. Open and close.

In and out. In and out.

 

“Uh, Blondie out.”

 

Laurent gives a noncommittal hum, and the line goes dead.

 

Mccree turns one last time to the technician--doctor--person--thing lying on the floor dead. The mauve lighting of the room illuminates the growing pool of blood underneath him to gleam a sickly black color.

 

The man is splayed out, arms extended, palms facing the ceiling.

 

_ Like Mama used to do. Arms prepared to sweep you in for a hug. Arms extended as wide as the wingspan of a snow angel that you see in the vids. _

 

Mccree feels a wave of disgust and nausea briefly overtake his features as the scent of blood finally sinks in.

 

Mccree removes Peacekeeper from the concealed holster, and tucks her into the one at his hip. He could’ve stopped in between the blows. He could’ve just buried a single bullet into the man’s head and be done with it. 

 

He could’ve made it painless. Quick and clean.

 

But he didn’t.

 

He  _ knows _ Reyes---the rest of Blackwatch--- would approve. After all, come for the king? You  _ best not miss. _

 

But he also knows that Miss Ana, Angie…... _Fareeha shit_ \--all the others would have _disapproved_.

 

The fact that what they think starts to hold equal sway with Reyes’ word scares him more than he thought possible.

 

He would repeat the killing without a second thought, if he had to do it all over again. And yet, he would believe himself worth the shame and disgust that would follow him afterwards if he had to do it over again.

 

He exits without looking back.

 

\--------------

 

A lone pair of boots clack on tarmac and cement, at a constant pace in between a brisk walk and a slow jog. The actual warehouse itself is quite large, and as Mccree scans the large bay area, he can see that at least some of Lacroix’s intel was right on the money. Automatic pulse munitions and weaponry line the walls from ground to ceiling. Artillery is lined up in neat rows spanning the width of a quarter of the whole building. Forklifts and crates lay scattered in the middle, some have been tipped over, as if they were being used as makeshift cover.

 

Mccree supposes that  _ was  _ their use not so long ago. He stops and realizes he’s the only person standing upright in the room.

 

Another ripple of panic threatens to take Mccree as he begins to frantically call out for survivors. He know’s it’s foolish. He know’s better than to run around screaming like a chicken without its head,  without cover, without a helmet on. If Reyes was here, he’d have yanked Mccree by the scruff of his neck back behind cover and thoroughly chewed his ass out. If Reyes was here, the comm’s would’ve been unfucked.

 

If Reyes was here, Mccree would’ve found another standing agent by now.

 

But he’s not.

 

A pained gasp and choking noise to his right has Mccree drawing and pointing Peacekeeper before the breath is done. He swivels and darts around the corner of a crate, and makes eye contact with Esparza, who has a pulse pistol aimed right for his head.

 

There’s blood on the side of his face, caking his hair to stick to his cheek and forehead. He’s sitting, slightly hunched over; weak and feral. But his eyes gleam with rage and a wiry strength; a veteran combat medic--through and through.  Mccree looks down and sees a dead Holmes in his lap. Kennedy is there too, she’s holding one of Holmes’ cold, pale hands to her cheek, gazing mournfully at the deceased operative. Two other agents mill around beside them;more agents Mccree has had little to no contact with-- Kunchai and Gomez. Kunchai sits staring off into the distance, absentmindedly, cleaning and reloading his rifle without even looking at it. Gomez is patting down the dead body of a Talon agent close by. He knicks some loose change and a few sticks of gum off their corpse and seems satisfied enough with his find, because he stalks off outside the bay doors without giving anyone in the group a second look.

 

Kennedy is still staring at Holmes. Etching her dead lover's face into her memory. Kennedy’s eyes of brown map out her green, unblinking eyes.

 

Unblinking eyes with a bullet right between them.

 

Quick. Painless.

 

Clean?

 

Mccree’s not so sure.

 

“ _ What the FUCK are you doing here?! Where the FUCK were you!?” _

 

Mccree is frozen in place. He lowers Peacekeeper. Slightly.

 

“I……..I.”

“You  _ what _ ?” Esparza spits at him.

 

“I had--had orders. To go undercover, I swear. Direct orders from Lacroix. Intel extraction. He said it was the surest way to get it undamaged--during yer infiltration ops, that is---what--what the fuck happened here? Where are the others?”

 

Esparza still hasn’t lowered her weapon.

 

“Stop-- just--just stop it, Antonio. He--he didn’t know. Our comms were down. Put the wea-pon d-down…,” Kennedy sputters out in between quiet sobs, still not taking her eyes off of Holmes.

 

Slowly. Slowly. The pistol drops. Esparza’s upper lip curls in repulsion, and he throws the weapon at Mccree’s feet.

 

Mccree see’s the crudely carved name on the side of the gun. 

 

‘Akami.’

 

“Where are the others?” Mccree dreads the answer he may get. But he needs to  _ know _ .

 

Esparza shakes his head and waves his hand near his head, noncommittally. 

 

“ _ Around _ . Somewhere. Not quite here.”

 

“ _ Not quite here? _ Not quite here ain’t a good enough answer, medic.”

 

“Yea? Well, you go look for ‘em then. If you don’t mind, I still gotta treat Kennedy and Kunchai over here and--”

 

“Fine. Just--fine. Whatever. Understood. I’ll find ‘em.”

 

Mccree runs a hand through his hair, still in that mussed-up, man-ponytail resting low on the nape of his neck. Or in Anawi’s words, ‘the Jon Snow’, whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

 

It’s how he did his hair for the funeral. For Echo squad.

 

He hopes he won’t be wearing it to anymore funerals.

 

No more coffins on his young shoulders.

 

_ Please _ .

 

Before he departs, Mccree picks Akami’s pulse pistol off the ground and tucks it into the other side of his belt.

 

He stalks off to go find the rest of his brothers and sisters.

 

Alive?

 

_ I’ll find out soon enough I s’pose.  _

 

He does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Yayo- Affectionate term for 'Grandad/ Grandpa' in spanish.
> 
> yeaa i'll be updating the tags and tw's from here on out don't worry bbys. also next chapter is already in works so please???keep up the comments????they give me life and they really do motivate me to write better and faster so yea thanks for reading and your support<333


	8. Goodnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yea im really sorry this is so little for such a wait but i am drowning in classes and homework. please leave me comments they give me life.

_ “Play another one, yayo! I wanna hear some more!” The child pipes up from beside his grandpa, hands on his knees, resting his head on the elderly mans shoulder and looking up, pleadingly. _

 

_ The man chuckles low and smooth, he takes a hand off the beaten acoustic to ruffle his grandchild’s soft, chestnut brown hair and pats the childs freckled face affectionately. _

 

_ “Don’t you think I’ve played enough for one night, jaybird? Aren’t you tired yet?--” _

 

_ “Psh. Me? Tired? No--way.” The child puffs out softly. It’s followed by a soundless, barely concealed yawn. _

 

_ “Please…….?” _

 

_ “It’s getting late now--” _

 

_ “Pleeease??” _

 

_ “Agh….mijo I don’t think--” _

 

_ “Pleeeeeease?!” The boy cups his hands together and inches even closer to the elderly man, essentially crawling in his lap over the beaten guitar and shaking the man’s shoulder. Just when the boy seems to almost be out of breath, he sucks in another breath to prolong his ‘please’. The older man shakes his head and looks up at the pitch-black sky. _

 

_ “Okay! Okay! Alright….” He says with a round, bell-like laughter. He puts his hands up placatingly and the child retreats back to his side, satisfied with his victory. _

 

_ “But just one more, you understand? Then it’s straight to bed”, he says with faux-authority. The boy just smiles and nods his head up and down. _

 

_ He knows he could still get a few more songs out of him even after that. _

 

_ The man, with deft, weathered fingers retunes the guitar to just his own specifications. He strums as he goes, feeling out the notes he knows so well. He clears his throat when he’s done. His grandson still looks up at him imploringly. Expectantly. The older man begins humming out the first few verses. He sounds brassy and round, like his laughs. It’s sombre and earnest, and the child can feel his rumblings vibrate through his body. _

 

_ He begins to sing. _

 

_ “--And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees _

_ Send me off forever but I ask you please _

_ Don't fence me in.” _

 

_ The child immediately snuggles closer into his grandfather’s side. He knows the song well, it’s one of his favorites. As his grandpa continues, the child looks up and grins. While his elder is occupied, a small set of hands set to work; they gently snatch the wide-brimmed hat off his head and plant it on his own. His yayo laughs around the line he’s singing when his little jaybird attempts to get the battered, fairly large hat to settle on his little head steadily. _

 

_ “On my cayuse, let me wander over yonder _

_ Till I see the mountains rise!”  _

 

_ He holds the note of the last line, he can almost hear the voice of his beloved wife harmonizing with him in his ears as he serenades his only grandchild; she was always the soprano. She always held that note a bit higher than he. He begins to sway with himself, looking down at the little boy tucked into his side, his leathery brown eyes gaze adoringly at a little face that he swears mirrored his own when he was that young. _

 

_ “I want to ride to the ridge where the West commences--” _

 

_ That small voice pipes up again, joining him in song. _

 

_ “--Gaze at the moon till I lose my senses!”, his little jaybird croons out dutifully. _

  
  


_ “ I can't look at hobbles--”, the senior figure cuts back in. _

 

_ \--and I can't stand fences!” The boy affirms. _

 

_ They harmonize together, right at the very end. _

 

_ “Don't fence me in. _

 

_ No, Papa, don't you fence me in!” _

 

_ The old man gives a final, solid strum of the guitar before staying the strings with his fingers. He sharply looks down at the child and grins ear to ear. The little boy chuckles when the old man gives his grandson a high-five and ruffles his head through the hat he’s still wearing. _

 

_ The sound of a raspy throat being cleared has both parties swiveling to turn their heads back to the front porch door. A wisp of a woman stands behind the broken screen door clad in a faded flannel gown. A heavy frown hangs limply on her sallow, blotchy face. She stares and stares until a violent cough rattles her. She quickly brings a tissue to cover her nose and mouth.She sounds like she may as well be hacking a lung up into it, what with all the terrible, terrible noise she makes. After the fit passes, the tissue disappears and only that frown remains. _

_ The boy is just amazed it hasn’t physically slipped off her face yet. _

 

_ Her eye’s of brow-beaten hazel are still narrowed as she speaks, _

 

_ “Papa, why is Joel still awake?” She murmurs,resting her head against the doorframe. Her head is too heavy on her shoulders, she’s too tired. _

 

_ So tired. _

 

_ “Claudia--I…..” The older man looks suddenly put off. He glances between his straw-doll of a daughter and a suddenly guilty looking grandson. _

 

_ “He couldn’t sleep, _ _ cariño _ _. He had a nightmare, I wanted to cheer him up.” _

 

_ The woman yawns around her reply, shutting her eyes. “A nightmare…...? That’s funny, considering he’s not wearing his pajamas. And I never heard him come to bed to begin with.” _

 

_ The two men of the house look at each other with equally hang-dog expressions. _

 

_ “Claudi--” _

 

_ “Whatever, papa….Just keep it down. Please.” Her eyes open again wearily. _

 

_ Joel murmurs soft and low, shrinking in on himself in his seat on the rickety, old porch swing. _

_ “ ‘m sorry for wakin’ you, mama…..G’night mamma……love ya.” _

 

_ The boy's mother considers him for a moment. Her eyes squint with the gesture, her shoulders stiffen somewhat. She looks as put off as her father now. She sucks in a shaking breath, _

 

_ “His english is getting good, Papa. He  almost sounds like the rest of those gringos. Before long he’ll have the accent to match the looks” _

 

_ Joel’s uneasy smile goes lopsided, he’s not sure if it’s an insult or a compliment, so he pretends it’s the latter. He wants so badly for mamma to be proud of him, to smile at him again. _

 

_ She stalks off without another word, retreating further into the bungalow. _

 

_ Joel puffs out an uneasy breath he didn’t know he was holding. His grandfather looks back down at him and runs practiced fingers through the snowy white tufts of hair on his head. _

 

_ “You heard the lady. Come on.  _ _ Levántate.” _

 

_ Joel hums in answer and slowly eases himself off the porch swing. Joel has never seen a reason to not speak plainly, never seen a reason to hide his intentions behind flowery language or redirections, so he comes out and just says it. Like a man. Like yayo would. _

 

_ “Why doesn’t mamma love me anymore?” _

 

_ His yayo physically stiffens in place. His grip on the neck of the guitar tightens for a moment, eyes wide. That makes Joel shrink again, he tugs the brim of the hat over his eyes, easily shadowing over his whole face. That doesn’t stop him from hearing the heavy breath his grandpa lets out. The wood paneling of the porch lets out a low groan as the older man kneels in front of him. Slowly deft fingers grip the hat by the front brim and slowly raise it up, until he looks the child right in the eyes. Those eyes and that face so similar to his own. _

 

_ How his daughter sees anything of the boys father in him still is a mystery. _

 

_ “Jaybird...why would you say something like that? Your mamma loves you very, very much, and there’s nothing you--” _

 

_ The elders heart shudders in his chest when he sees his grandsons lower lip quiver, his eyes blinking quickly now. The tears shouldn’t be too far behind. _

 

_ “She doesn’t act like she loves me no more….I don’t know what I did. What-what did I do pipo? What didn’t I do….?” _

 

_ “Jay….” _

 

_ “What can I do?” _

 

_ “Nothing. You can do nothing because you don’t have to do anything. You did nothing wrong, child.” _

 

_ Joel looks down at the wood grain of the porch, his small hands rubbing at his eyes violently for moments at a time. He blinks quickly, beginning to sniffle. He won’t cry. He won’t. _

 

_ “Doesn’t feel like it……” _

 

_ “That’s because you don’t always get to feel the love someone may bear for you.” _

 

_ Joel crinkles an eyebrow. _

 

_ “For instance….if I were to punish you for,say--- staying up very late past your bedtime,” _

 

_ Joel clears his throat guiltily. _

_ “--and I got very mad at you---and you got mad at me--would I feel that you still love me? Would I still love you?” _

 

_ Joel frowns and gives a small shrug. _

 

_ “Of course I would still love you, and you would love me. It’s just that--for that moment, you wouldn’t feel it. But you would still know that the love is there, somewhere.” _

 

_ “..........I made mamma angry?” _

 

_ The elder considers his next words carefully, and speaks them with a heavy sigh. _

 

_ “Look at me, jaybird. Look-- sometimes, people get very sick….and then they get very sad. And when they get sad, they become tired. They become so tired, jay. Your mamma is tired, and sad, and sick.” _

 

_ “She’s not well…….you know that” _

 

_ Joel looks up at his Grandad, pouting. “Why?” _

 

_ “Because she is. Because we all are sometimes. And sometimes it's hard to not be such a way anymore.” _

 

_ “Why?” _

 

_ “Because they may not be able to get better. They may not have the money, or the right doctor or family to help them…..” The man shakes his head, wracking his brain, trying to think while he speaks. How the hell is he supposed to explain-- _

 

_ “Why?” _

 

_ “Because only Dios and Fate decides what’s given to us in life. And they have given your mamma only a little less than everyone else gets. But your mamma is also a very strong lady, and proud; she was a detective---er…..a cop after all. She doesn’t need Fate or Dios’ charity. Only time, our love, and a little bit of luck.” He says with a smile to himself. _

 

_ No. They didn’t have a lot of money, for medicine or otherwise. Or a good doctor--they didn’t really have a doctor at all. But the elder knew that he and his daughter could give his grandson something a bit more precious than those things. Love, support, a roof over his head, a firm grounding in morals, and most importantly-- they could give this kid a fighting chance in this shattered shell of a world; which is something not all young boys would ever get to have. _

 

_ “Why?” _

 

_ The elder lets out a frustrated huff he goes to fix Joel with an exasperated glare, but he looks up and sees Joel trying to smile, his shoulders quaking and his eyes blinking away what few tears had gathered there. The old man smiles, shakes his head, and pulls his grandson in a firm embrace; pressing a kiss to his forehead. The hat loses purchase on Joel’s head and lands on the porch steps. _

 

_ A while after that both men of the house take a deep breath and prepare their trek to bed, and hopefully a very deep sleep. Joel turns and makes a beeline for the hat, dusting it off and tugging at his grandfather’s sleeve, he holds it out firmly to him. His yayo takes it and squarely plants it back on the young boys head. _

 

_ “How about you hold onto it for me for now, hm?” _

 

_ Joel’s eyes go saucer-wide. _

 

_ “Like hold onto it-hold onto it. Or….?” _

 

_ Yayo chuckles. “Like keep it, hold onto it.” _

 

_ “But pipo, are you sure?” _

 

_ The old man opens the creaky screen door and stands to the side, letting the child sidle into the house before he closes the door behind him. _

 

_ “Of course. I actually meant to surprise you with it later, for your birthday but….no harm ever came of an early birthday present. Besides--” _

 

_ He stops and lays his palm on the child's shoulder, steering him subtly towards their shared bedroom. _

 

_ “It’s suits you, you’d make a fine vaquerito.” Yayo chuckles out. _

 

_ Joel frowns and tries to press the hat even firmer on his head. _

 

_ It doesn’t work. _

 

_ “It don’t fit though, m’ heads too small.” _

 

_ Yayo laughs again. He opens the bedroom door further and treads over to one of the two creaky twin beds, pulling the covers over. Joel gets the hint and shuffles into bed, jeans, t-shirt, hat and all. They are both too tired at this point, and Joel can always change in the morning before they greet mamma for breakfast. She’ll be none the wiser. _

 

_ They hope. _

 

_ Yayo sit on the edge of the bed and tucks Joel in. _

 

_ “I wouldn’t worry about that, jaybird. I have no doubt in my mind you’ll grow into it, and I don’t just mean your head will get bigger.” _

 

_ Joel smiles shyly and rubs the back of his head. “Y’really think so?” _

 

_ His Yayo beams down at his grandson, smiling. His laugh lines are deep engravings on his face, like permanent lines cut into stone. Unmoving and ever-present. They have been hard-earned, and the scars, wrinkles, worry lines and sunspots that dot his visage are even harder-earned still. _

 

_ “I know so.” Yayo whispers. Joel shuffles deeper under the covers. “I am just as sure of that, as I am sure that your mamma and I love you. Now then…” Yayo gently places the hat to the boys side, he dims the nightlight on the shabby corner table next to the bed. _

 

_ “Get some rest, son. You’ll need it for tomorrow.” _

 

_ Joel nods once, definitively. He smiles. _

 

_ “....G’night.” _

 

_ “Goodnight.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations & slang:  
> Yayo & Pipo- spanish slang for grandad.  
> mijo-my son  
> levantate- spanish command for 'get up'
> 
> did somebody say they wanted backstory for a backstory fic!?!?!?


	9. Baby's breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i am late yes i did not update last week but it was my birthday and life happened so there.  
> hope y'all're willing to read a long chapter cause hoooo boy.  
> also yes please keep the comments coming. also im willing to answer questions as to plot and characters so have at it

“Morrison! Commander Morrison!”

 

“Please, Commander! One more question!”

 

“Sir, over here! Sir!

 

“Commander! A moment of your time!”

 

“Mr. Morrison!”

 

The glass doors slide behind him unsatisfactorily smooth. He was hoping for a slam, a finite noise that separates him from  _ them _ . But he supposes it’s just not his day.  _ Mr. Morrison _ . Oh  _ please _ . He’s never once been called that in his life. A guilty part of him wants to look over his shoulder to scan the crowd for the only Mr. Morrison he’s ever truly known. He can see his pops now. Stern faced and snowy haired. Eyes that track his movements, gleaming a disapproving sea-green. His mouth set in a hard line and his eyes narrowed into two dismayed slits. His father  _ hated  _ reporters. Hated the media. Hated press conferences.

 

Hated the pomp and fanfare that was strangling his eldest son into submission for the sake of cameras and appearances.

 

_ They’ve made you into a fine show dog, junior. _

 

_ Thanks dad. Love you too, dad. _

 

Jack feels as ridiculous as he looks. He straightens out the collar of his cerulean coat and stomps down the halls in his overtly shiny boots. He wasn’t even allowed to shine his own shoes anymore.

 

There’s people for that commander. They’ll get the job done for you, commander.

 

That’s no longer your concern, commander.

 

_ Commander. Commander. Commander. _

 

He’d rather people say ‘bloody mary’ three times into a bathroom mirror then for anyone say  _ commander  _ to his face one more time today.

 

Gabe and Ana are still jabbering out to him from behind. He feels the veins on his forehead pop out as he swerves on them, red-faced.

 

“--so are you gonna answer us or what, Jackie boy--”

 

“What the  _ fuck  _ are your malfunctions? Both of you!? What the fuck were you thinking, barging in like that!?”

 

They all stop in the middle of the hall. Ana crosses her arms and Gabe points a default glance at Jack. Ana speaks first. Good thing too.

 

“We were thinking of quite a lot, actually. Thinking of things that are time sensitive and needed your attentions. Conference or no.”

 

“No. Bullshit. Not then. Nothing could be  _ that  _ important.”

 

“I disagree.” Gabe states plainly.

 

“Yea? Well. Because of the stunt  _ you two  _ just pulled in front of the finnish prime minister, Overwatch may be disallowed from entering scandinavian airspace for a while!”

 

Gabe begins to give an inkling of one of his famous shrugs.Ana cuts back in.

 

“I’ll put in a call to Torbjorn’s wife--she can put in a good word for us. She’s rerunning for her old seat in parliament again this year, isn’t she?” Ana says, turning to Gabe.

 

“You know, I’m not quite sure actually. Astrid was telling me that she has her eyes on the committee on the constitution this next term.” Gabe says grinning, matter-of-factly.

 

“ _ Really _ ? My I am proud of her. You know I had my doubts. Especially after that run in she had with the prime minister over that environmental reform bill the king was pushing--” Her tone has turned coy.

 

“Wait. Which one? The co-op one with Norway over CO2 emissions or…?”

 

“No dear. It was the one concerning particle emissions in urban centers.”

 

Jack drags a miserable hand down his face. He lets grits out a small growl from the back of his throat, he presses his forehead to the nearest wall. The white concrete feels cool against his simmering skin.

 

“What do you guys….. _ want _ .” He groans out. Eyes closed. He hopes they will just disappear if he keeps them that way long enough.

 

_ If you can’t see them. They can’t see you. _ His kid brother's voice echoes childishly in his skull.

 

“ _ Well  _ it’s funny that you asked, actually.” Gabe says. His voice bordering on smug.

 

Jack turns his head slowly. Deathly slow. He stares and stares. He stares some more. He only  _ wishes  _ he were as good as  _ Mr. Morrison  _ was. Pops could always make someone feel like an asshole just by staring at them long enough.

 

It certainly worked on Jack growing up.

 

That stare almost stopped him from leaving the family farm back in Indiana.

 

Almost.

 

Ana takes over, shooting Gabe a flat look.

 

“Jack. We--” Gabe snorts. Ana’s look sharpens to a frown.

 

“ _ We  _ need your help. It’s about Jesse…”

 

Jack looks up, pushing himself off the wall. “What. Your charity case finally turn tail on you Gabe? Finally showed true colors? I can get you a warrant if that’s what you want, but  _ you’re  _ the one who’s gonna have to call the--”

 

“Oh go  _ fuck yourself _ , Jack. See Ana?  _ This  _ is what I was talking about--”

 

“ _ Jack. Gabe _ .” Ana’s eyes widen. They’re starting pretty early. They usually wait a bit longer before they jump into expletives. They both haven’t been sleeping much.

 

_ Great. _

 

“About  _ what _ , Gabe? How much you don’t like to be proven wrong? I  _ told  _ you this would happen--”

 

“I don’t have a problem with being wrong, Jack. I have a problem with you assuming the worst out of my agents-- _ Look _ the feds are finally up my ass about Jesse being here in my custody and--”

 

“And now he’s gone, right? Now he’s armed, trained, dangerous, and totally out of your jurisdiction. And now you need  _ me  _ to--”

 

“He’s not AWOL, Jack. He’s on an extended mission. But he won’t be forever. The feds are poking around. They want custody of Jesse the minute his boots touch the tarmac and I’m not giving it to them.”

 

Jack putters around. Suddenly off-put and he can feel the embarrassment crawling up his throat. He gestures vaguely to the air in front of him. “Yea? And?”

 

“Wh--” Gabe looks somewhat taken aback. The default air of aloofness and neutrality loosens up somewhat; like the string on a bow snapping lax. “What do you mean,  _ ‘yea and?’  _ I’m not complying. I’m not cooperating. I’m not handing him over but they could still come for him themselves all the same.”

 

Jack frowns. Ana looks between the two. Eyebrows knit in unsurety.

 

“Why come to me for this. You’re always on me about how  _ he’s Blackwatch _ . It’s out of my control. What the feds do is out of my control. And yours too.”

 

Gabe narrows his eyes. Something internal rears up in frustration. But he swallows it down. He’s taken many bitter pills in his life. What’s one more?

 

“ _ Jack _ . Gabriel and I came to you because we  _ know  _ that is not true. The agents from America have no cause to take Mccree from Blackwatch now. Not while he is doing good work. Not while he is needed here.” Ana’s tone turns tender. 

 

“We understand your reservations about Agent Mccree may still hold some validity. He is not out of the woods yet, by far. But we would not have come to you if he did not mean something of worth to this organization. To us. Gabriel does not hold as much sway with the UN. With the American government. Not since the crisis. Not even when it comes to his own agents--”

 

Jack zero’s in on Gabe. Truly looking at him for the first time today. Gabe turns his head dismissively, his crossed arms tighten. The way gabe’s face twitches minutely.

 

Jack knows Gabe is biting the insides of his mouth bloody and raw again.

 

Jack wants to ask him if he’s okay.

 

But what Jack wants right now doesn’t seem to be importance to either of them right this moment.

 

“And--I can only do so much as second in command. But  _ you _ …..”

 

“You can do something. Give us more time to think something through, stall their probe. Perhaps put in a good word with the justice department. Offer them a review of Mccree’s clean records.  _ Something _ , Jack. You do not even need to concern yourself beyond those measures.”

 

Ana pauses. She’s trying so hard to think of something to say. Piercing eyes of brown flecked with gold search the middle distance before meeting his own. Gabe still has his head turned away.

 

Jack can still hear the muffled clamoring of the riotous reporters outside.

Jack sighs. He knows it’s a mistake. He knows that Ana and Gabe’s judgement is wasted on a felon. A wanted criminal who even  _ now  _ is finding a way to avoid justice.

 

A wanted criminal he’s going to offer to help.

 

“Christ….don’t fence me in like this.” He puts his hands on his hips. The way Ana’s looking at him and the way Gabe  _ isn’t  _ looking at him makes Jack’s decision for him.

 

“Fine.” He sighs out. “Alright I’ll try. But no obstructing the federal agents. The more we try to hide Mccree or stall them the more irate they’ll get. The more irate, the more likely they’ll be to comb through  _ other  _ records--find more shit they can stick up our asses. We do this professionally. We do this cleanly. I’ll invite them and their superiors to a review board, let them see for themselves just who they’re trying to jail.”

 

Gabe shakes his head. He’s swallowed the pill. He can talk again. “Already tried that. They turned their noses up at the records I  _ could  _ show them. Already talked up his abilities, I’m pretty sure they tuned me out halfway.”

 

Jack nods, rubbing his upper lip with an index finger. He grins, and glances up. “That’s because you gave ‘em an option, Gabe.”

 

Gabe blinks to himself and finally faces Jack. Confusion taints his features marginally. They lock eyes.

 

“They’re still bureaucrats. They’re still very much in the public eye. They didn’t give you the time of day because they didn’t  _ have  _ to.”

 

Ana’s brows furrow. But Jack presses on.

 

“They can get away with turning you down. Or maybe on a good day, even  _ you _ , Ana.” Jack states sardonically.

 

Jack starts walking. He cradles the hand scrubbing at the space above his upper lip with his other arm. Jack shrugs to himself.

 

“But let’s say-- they were invited to accompany the  _ Strike Commander of Overwatch  _ to a public forum--a hearing. Stick ‘em behind some cameras….face an inquiry panel on their motivations,  _ surrounded  _ by international personnel….”

 

Gabe quirks a grin. “Make ‘em sweat under the collar a little bit? Make ‘em pull a Nixon v. Kennedy?”

 

Jack chuckles. “Maybe just a little bit.”

 

Ana’s shoulders slump. “Hope their constitutions give out? Hope the publicity scares them from pursuing a criminal like Jesse so publicly?”

 

Gabe pauses.  _ Criminal _ . Hearing that word, he pictures faceless men. Faceless men with faceless goals. Shadowy and dangerous. He doesn’t see Jesse’s face, that lopsided grin, that easy swagger. Sincere eyes. Looking down again. He has defaulted to neutrality. The more he seems to think about Jack’s suggestion and Ana’s rebuttal, the more his brows furrow.

 

“I don’t see the problem.” Jack defends.

 

Ana shakes her head. “ _ We  _ do, Jack. It’s not a bad idea but--we cannot. If we try to make the agents from America’s motivations public, it means  _ Jesse’s  _ history and record go public.”

 

“If Mccree gets extradited and goes to court, it goes public anyway.” Jack offers.

 

“Kids former Deadlock. Almost all of Deadlock is either--well-- _ dead  _ or behind bars. They’ve got a bounty all their own on the kid, he’s a target. He won’t make it to trial.” Gabe mutters. 

 

Ana softens. “Gabriel…”

 

“I don’t see why not. While they’re holding him, we get him into protective custody. Put extra eyes on him while he’s holed up there.”

 

“Yea because an extra set of eyes is gonna stop an old gang mate from planting a shiv in Jesse, right?”

 

Jack winces. Ana does not.

 

Jack sighs, defeatedly. “So what the hell do you guys expect from me? Where do we go from here?”

 

The trio is stunted into silence.

 

“They can’t arrest someone who’s already dead.”

 

“Gabe, what the fuck--”

 

“Gabriel!  _ What?!” _

 

Gabe puts his hands up placatingly. Moreso for Ana’s benefit than Jack’s. She looks just about ready to murder him right then and there.

 

“Agent Mccree was assigned to a confidential mission in Monaco. Fairly big op for Blackwatch too, starting out with twenty-seven agents in one place. Now they’re down the twenty-one. It wouldn’t be that unusual for another to go down as a casualty.” Gabe states matter of factly. Six bodies that he knows of. Twenty-one bodies still alive, possibly. Gerard has been covering ops for him on this mission ever since the feds showed their faces at HQ and waved their shiny badges at Nora.

 

He’s sure Gerard would have been keeping him updated if something were wrong. Gerard always had. He was good for it. He and Ana were possibly the only ones Gabe  _ could  _ trust with anything remotely Blackwatch.

 

“Gabe…Six casualties already?  _ Your  _ agents? Do you...do you want me to dispatch a team--?”

 

Gabe snarls at him. “Don’t bother. If you really cared about my agents you would’ve sent yours instead in the first place. You wanted to keep this shit under wraps and make nice with the french. You wanted to job done quietly and quickly. So there they are.”

 

“As I’ve said, I had nothing but the utmost in  _ confidence  _ in--”

 

“My people aren’t pawns,  _ Commander _ .” Jack’s features scrunch up in disgust. Something deep seeded in Gabe crows at the victory.

 

“My agents aren’t meant for ops like this. We’re understaffed as it is. There are agents on this mission that have only been on espionage, honeypot and intel-extraction detail for  _ years _ . I told you this. And now that the bodies are piling up and starting to stink,  _ now  _ you wanna break out the air freshener?”

 

“That’s not fair, Gabriel.” Ana warns. Jack has gone beet-red.

 

“No. And you know what else isn’t fair? A few hours worth of paperwork for each Blackwatch agent dead; doctoring records,  _ making up  _ records, dumping files on Angela in the middle of the night so she can make the death certificates look nice to the families of the deceased. That’s not fair.”

 

“Only in death do some of my agents get medals they so deserved pinned to their chests. Nora’s been getting threats and angry calls all day after alerting some of the families that they lost a son or daughter. A husband, wife, partner. A parent. That’s not fair.”

 

“People like Jesse----” Gabe blinks, rolling his shoulders. He has to keep his calm. They’re actually letting him speak for once. Oh sure, Ana was always willing to hear Gabe out. But only behind closed doors, in private. She was only second-in commander; a pretty name-- the equivalent of a vice president to a president in terms of actual usefulness.

Jack would have usually dismissed him by now, always claiming there wasn’t enough time to address grievances or enough resources. But  _ now _ . He has them.

 

“--Earning that second chance.  _ Deserving  _ that second chance. Using it. Just for someone to take it away again. That kid will never  _ not  _ have someone after him.  _ That’s  _ not fair.”

 

He pauses. Jack and Ana at least  _ look  _ like they are considering him in earnest.

 

“I never claimed to be a fair person, Ana. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I’ve got a job to do, and I do it well. And right now, my job is keeping a good kid out of prison. With or without anyones help.”

 

“I want to help Gabriel, no matter what you decide to do. But, I do not think Jesse faking his own death is the way to go. He has had to hide enough as it is.” Ana implores. “And, I will not let Fareeha live believing a loved one has perished while he still draws breath.”

 

Gabe considers Ana and tilts his head this way and that, cracking out the cricks in his neck. He blinks slowly at her once. She knows he’s already thrown away the death idea in his head. She knows he’s reconsidering options.

 

“You’re taking  _ his  _ side?” Jack asks petulantly.

 

“I am taking  _ Jesse’s _ side.” Ana affirms. Jack frowns.

 

“I’m trying to help too, you know. I already said I would. I can still request the agents sit down with me for a review board. I can give them clearance-- _ encourage  _ them to review his file. Maybe find out who started this whole investigation. I still have some friends in government.”

 

“I’m  _ sure you do _ \--”

 

“ _ Jabril _ .”

 

“Fine. Thanks. Do what you can then. I’ll do what I have to. We’ll go from there.” Gabe and Jack can’t meet each other's eyes anymore.

 

Jack nods to himself, he draws closer to Gabe. “It--It’ll all work out. However it’s supposed to, it will. We  _ will _ figure this out, Gabe.”

 

Gabe shoots him a look that could be interpreted as grateful. In an off-put and annoyed kind of way. The two men awkwardly exist around each other for a few beats. Trying to make and avoid eye contact at the same time. They turn their heads, gazes shifting everywhere. They get closer. Gabe places a solid palm on Jack’s shoulder and shakes it lightly. Awkwardly. Jack shoots him a flat smile and returns the gesture. They’re still not sure how to navigate being what they are to each other.

 

Ana rolls her eyes, tsking and crossing her arms. Almost wishing she could trade places with Jesse right now. Wherever he is.

 

“I mean it, Gabe. We’ll pull through this. As a team. United.”

 

Gabe pulls away from the clumsy, almost pseudo-embrace thing they’re in. Nodding.

 

“Y’know I really wish I had your confidence sometimes, Jackie. That assurance of yours is something else.”

 

“Really?” Jack quirks a bashful grin.

 

Gabe grins right back. “Yea I mean. It’s on a whole new level of conviction. But I suppose it’d come naturally to anyone who has what  _ you  _ have….after all……”

 

“I’m not the one with the statue.”

 

\------------------------------------------------------

 

About fifty feet from where Mccree finds Esparza and the others, he discovers the bodies of agents Sutton, Mokoena, and Parikh. All dead. Mccree can’t say he knew or really cared about the first two beyond them all being Blackwatch together, but seeing what is left of Parikh….

 

Mccree feels something clench in his throat, he thinks of two bright, little faces and late night skype calls. How sickeningly fitting Parikh die such a way. His head has been nearly blown off; just like Koppel’s. The work of this sniper is so much more different than the one that seemed to have killed Holmes, Sutton and Mokoena…..It must have been at closer range, a bigger bullet, a different angle.  _ Something. _ There’s so much more blood splatter, so much more hair, head and skin missing, and the exit wound is so much more jagged and awkward than the one’s found on the other two agents by his side.

 

Anawi must not have known that a second sniper existed. Vetrov might not have realized and killed the second sniper before it was two late.

 

Fuckin’ hell. Maybe Vetrov  _ was  _ the second sniper.

 

Where the fuck was he anyway?

 

No. Don’t worry about him.

 

Find the others first. Regroup. No one left behind.

 

You’ll light him the fuck up if he shows his face. If he fires a shot.

 

You’ve got a bullet with his name on it.

 

No one left behind.

 

Mccree lines up the three bodies side by side with Kunchai’s help, after he’s returned from enjoying his spoils of war. Kunchai leaves temporarily to go find something to cover their heads with, the bubblegum he swiped off the dead Talon soldier is still being used. He blows the gum into multiple, successive spheres of pink. Mccree’s eyebrow twitches involuntarily with the snap of each bubble.

 

That drives him to search Parikh’s body for the penknife from his boot. Mccree would rather loot a dead teammate and hate himself later for it rather than see the penknife end up in Kunchai’s possession. The penknife gets tucked into his own boot. He stalks off to look for others. Inside the warehouse, the bodies of Albini and Harris are found not three feet from the body of a Talon operative, an officer, if the silver ‘T’ on the helmet is anything to go by.

 

A traitorous part of him hopes they’re not either of the two officers he overheard earlier.

Bristow stalks out of an open office cradling another body in his arms. He nearly does a double take as he goes to pass Mccree. Mccree opens his mouth to start explaining himself, his presence, but Bristow merely shakes his head.

 

“I don’t really know what you're doing here sergeant. But I don’t….don’t really care.” Bristow rolls his shoulder and fixes his hold on the headless corpse in his arms.

 

Mccree tries not to look.

 

“Where’s Anawi?”

 

Bristow shakes his head. “Hell if I know. Our comms went haywire while she was doing a sweep of the upper catwalks and offices.”

 

“Got it. Also, I was told to tell you and Lieutenant Anawi to make the EVAC call to Laurent. He’s waiting to patch us in with HQ and get us home.”

 

Bristow clears his throat, pointedly ignoring Mccree’s words.“Is that all, Mccree?”

 

“Yea--nah. I mean--Have you seen Akami? She wasn’t with Esparza or the others I found so far.” Mccree gestures to the pulse pistol in one hand. “I just wanna get this back to her is all. She’s all sortsa OCD about her sidearm…” Mccree tries to crack a grin. It comes off as little more than a pathetic grimace.

 

Bristow blinks at him again, he readjusts his grip of the limp body again. “Put it on top.”

 

Mccree’s eyes narrow. “...Pardon?”

 

Bristows eyes dart to the dead body and back to Mccree. “You wanna return it to her so fucking badly, sergeant? Return it then and get out of my way.”

 

Mccree knew what Bristow meant the first time. No pardon needed. But he wishes he didn’t know. Gently, Mccree empties the pulse pistols chamber and lays the weapon in the lap of what remains of Akami. He looks up at Bristow apologetically and goes to tip the hat on his head that isn’t there.

 

Mccree tries to play it off, he runs the bloody, gloved hand through his hair. But Bristow doesn’t really care, as he already treks off with his dead medic in hand.

 

Mccree clenches his jaw and makes his way towards the upper level catwalks, flanked on both sides by more open concept offices attached to the metal-grated flooring. More bodies. Some hang halfway off the stairs, others off the catwalk itself. Blackwatch and Talon alike. Black clothed bodies loose and limp next to each other in their communal demise. Arms hang off the edges, staircases, platforms. Gloved fingers belonging to  gloved hands attached to arms colored in shades of nightfall. Mccree studies them all as he steps over, around or past them. He almost prays to see fingers, any fingers, twitch with  _ some  _ semblance of life.

 

He doesn’t see it. But he hears it. A loud clamor of a flesh body meeting metal flooring. Mccree draws Peacekeeper and hurries down the catwalks length. It’s twist and turns that span the entirety of the warehouses length lead him to a simple steel door that seems to lead to an outside terrace. For a brief, dreadful moment, he believes an encounter like the one head had minutes prior lies on the other end of the door. But more noises of struggling and yelling halt his thoughts. Mccree rolls his shoulders, takes a step back, and steadies his breathing.

 

He kicks down the door and aims.

 

There, he sees her. Lieutenant Anawi. Very much alive. Her hijab is in a bundled mess around her neck, her hair of gray and brown clings to the sides of her head in sweat-slick clumps. Her breathing is hard. The trembling in her form makes the ring on her dog tags chain rattle around. A shred of golden light peeking out into the dusk. Her twin pistols are trained on a weary figure clad in all black.

 

Anawi startles, and one pistol finds itself trained on Mccree. Anawi takes her eyes off the kneeling figure in order to fully recognize Mccree. But she does.  _ Thank fuck. _

Anawi’s features twist into an ugly snarl as she retrains both pistols, and her sights on the Talon operative.

 

“You took long enough.”

 

Mccree tries for another lopsided smile. “I had ta turn somethin’ into lost and found after my little detour. I apologize for keepin’ y’all waitin’ on me.”  Anawi narrows her eyes, still staring down. Mccree rolls his shoulders again, getting closer. His mouth widens into a winning smile and he winks. Anawi snorts.

 

_ There. That wasn’t so hard. About time ya got back on the goddamn horse. _

 

Anawi without looking away shoves one of her pistols into Mccree’s chest. “Hold that.”

 

Mccree almost clumsily takes the other gun in hand. “Hey wait a min--”

 

Anawi uses her free hand to rip the helmet off of the Talon operative. Mccree sees the silverite ‘T’ on the helmets front before Anawi flings it away into the darkness. A shred of silvery light swallowed up by the dusk. An officer then.

 

The first thing he notices about the terrorist is simply how drawn he----no  _ she _ \-- looks. A hollow frown hangs from her pale, limp face. But she’s young. Maybe only a few years older than Angie or Mccree himself. With mousy red hair and green eyes. Green, unblinking eyes that stare up at Anawi with a deathly calm to them.

 

_ Green, unblinking eyes. Unblinking eyes with a bullet right between them-- _

 

_ No.  _

 

_ Not yet there's not. _

 

“ _ La yusadiq _ .” Anawi hisses out. “Give me  _ one  _ good reason I do not blow your brains out here and  _ now _ .” She presses the handgun's barrel right to the other womans forehead. The operative only marginally flinches.

 

“Why should I?” The other woman speaks, clipped but venomous. Her accent puts her nationality somewhere in the celtic isles. But life and circumstances puts the rest of her on her knees in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere with a gun trained on her.

 

Ah. The good ol’ days. Mccree stamps out the brief jolt of secondhand deja vu that bounces around inside his head.

 

“You already have your reason already. Don’t you,  _ Overwatch _ ? You would’ve killed me already if it were up to  _ me  _ to give you reason to pause!”

 

Anawi smacks the Talon agent in the head with her pistol, knocking her to the ground. Anawi stabs the guns muzzle violently into the back of the operatives head.

 

The operative grunts in pain but she otherwise seems unaffected. Still staring up at Anawi with hateful, unblinking eyes.

 

It’s only when Mccree draws even closer that the Talon officers eyes rip themselves away from the elderly agent. She stares at Mccree's metal plated boots. How they draw closer and closer to her torso, her stomach facing him. As if on instinct, she repulses from his footsteps, her legs bent at the knees are drawn closer to shield her stomach. Mccree halts. shooting Anawi a confused look.

 

“This the last of ‘em?”

 

Anawi nods. “ _ Yes _ .”

 

Mccree nods to himself, remembering why he's here in the first place. “Laurent wanted me to tell ya it’s time to RTB. You gotta be the one to call in EVAC though.”

 

“Why me?  _ Popcorn  _ could not be bothered to call it in?”

 

“ ‘fraid not, ma’am….speakin’ of men who can’t be bothered to do their jobs. Where’s  _ Preacher _ ?” The callsign is bile on his tongue. But he can’t let Vetrov’s name slip in front of a Talon officer, even if she may very well soon be a dead one.

 

“ _ Gone _ . Without a trace. As soon as popcorn sent him to take down that sniper pinning us down...” Anawi laughs cruelly. “I should have killed him as soon as we told  _ Normandy _ .” Normandy. Specialist Lacroix’s callsign.

 

“That bastard is out there now. Could be very well hiding in these shadows, for all we know. Ready to kill us--”

 

“As much as I agree with ya ma’am. Nows not the time to think about him. We gotta RTB as soon as we can. We got what we came for.”

 

The officer snarls and spits a glob of bloody saliva at Mccree’s feet.

 

“--We’ve secured both objectives and now we’ve gotta figure out what to do with  _ Ms. Manners  _ over here.”

 

Anawi shakes her head. “Only  _ one  _ thing  _ to  _ be done.” She pulls the hammer back on her pistol.

 

The officer twitches again.

 

“Ma’am.” Mccree says. Authority tinging his voice. “With all due respect. We’d have more use for a live Talon officer than a dead one back at HQ.”

 

“And we would have more use for live  _ Blackwatch  _ agents than dead ones as well. But we all do not get what we want. The muzzle gets furthered jabbed into the officer's head, the skin underneath starts to turn an angry red and purple. That’ll leave a mark for hours. Days maybe.

 

“Exactly ma’am. And the last thing this loyal officer wants to do is live to spill ‘er gets about the very organization she kills for. Lettin’ her live is not givin’ her what she wants, ma’am.”

 

Mccree stops himself from exhaling in relief when he sees the muzzle lift from the officer’s head. Anawi holsters her sidearm and produces a pair of mean looking cuffs from her jacket. She rips her other pistol from Mccree’s hand and shoves the cuffs at him.

 

“You give her what she does not want, then. I will make the call for EVAC…” Sh stalks back into the warehouse, vitriol peeling off of her in waves. Mccree looks down and observes the shrunken officer at his feet. As soon as Anawi is out of sight, the officer allows her head and gaze to drop. She closes her eyes and breathes. She speaks.

 

“I am a second lieutenant, a Talon shock team leader. My serial number is  39-531-145.”

 

Mccree’s eyebrows narrow. He holsters Peacekeeper and goes to kneel behind her.

 

She sucks in a pained breath. Her sides flinch.

 

“My name is Lacy, Claire.”

 

Lacy.

 

Well. Shit.

 

He snaps the cuffs around her trembling hands behind her back. All of her fight seems to have left with Anawi.

 

“C’mon. Up.”

 

Mccree knows make believe, acting, pretending, when he sees it. He knows when people fake sickness, or tiredness or defeat. Hell, he’s guilty of faking some of the formers himself. But Reyes never bought any of that shit. Neither did Miss Ana. But that’s not what this is.

 

This is real. Exhaustion. Bone-deep and soul rattling. Lacy weakly tries the heave herself upright using her leg and sides. But halfway up her knees buckle and they both slump back onto the cold, cemented ground. Mccree shakes his head as he takes all of her weight upon himself, forcing them both upright. Her legs shake, but she trudges forward nonetheless. Mccree doesn’t say anything when halfway down the catwalk Lacy leans into Mccree, and he lets her. She glares and doesn’t say anything when Mccree quietly asks if the cuffs are too tight.

 

Laurent gives Anawi the green light, that EVAC is on the way and should arrive within the next ten hours.

 

In the meantime. They set to work. Blackwatch bodies are stacked side by side. Donated jackets and miscellaneous clothing is set to cover the heads of the deceased agents. Bristow adamantly covers Akami’s body head to toe in his own blanket. He sleeps curled up in a ball and turned away from the rest of the group, that night. The bodies of the dead Talon agents are unceremoniously piled one on top of the other far enough from the warehouse outside and burned. 

 

Gomez, Kunchai and some of the others don’t return to the warehouse. They stay to watch the bodies burn and cover their tracks once it’s over. Anawi is glued to her comm, playing conversation ping-pong between Laurent and Lacroix; hell, the woman falls asleep sitting upright against the wall, her hand still pressed to her ear. Mccree offers to take first watch of the warehouse and their….prisoner of war….? Unwilling guest….?

 

Mccree is sitting on a nearby crate absently unloading and cleaning Peacekeeper when he hears himself prompting, “so…...warm night ain’t it? That’ll mean an even warmer tomorrow, huh?”

 

Lacy tiredly stares at Mccree.

 

Mccree puffs out a laugh. “Hell. I  _ know  _ tomorrow’s gonna be a scorcher even without tonight's tipoff. Did you  _ see  _ the sunrise this mornin’? Absolutely gorgeous colors, I swear. Y’know you can tell what the weathers gonna be like just by watchin’ the mornin’ lights. ‘Red sky at night, sailors delight ‘n red sky in the morning, sailors warning’ n all that happy horseshit, right? At least that’s what m’ bosses ma told him who told  _ me  _ anyway. Hell, mornin’ lights can even tell ya if certain atmospheric pressures or storm systems are--”

 

“ _ Do you ever shut up _ ?” Lacy snaps.

 

Mccree grins to himself. Got her.

 

“I’ve been known to on occasion,  _ Ms. Manners _ .” He winks at her. Lacy wrinkles her nose and looks away.

 

“Ah course, now seems like a good as time as any for small talk. Shuttin’ up now would only let the silence take over the conversation. And silence is a bitch ‘n a half to live with.”

 

Mccree is answered with silence. A bitch ‘n a half alright.

Mccree finishes cleaning Peacekeeper and reloads her, carefully snapping her chamber back into place. He busts out one of the MRE’s he nicked off of Kunchai when he wasn’t looking and starts to dig into his room temperature ‘lemon pepper tuna.’

 

Disgusting.

 

But not the worst he’s had.

 

Certainly not.

 

Lacy must have shifted again, because he hears a pained groan come from her direction. Her cuffs had been rearranged to have her arms looped around an adject pipe running vertical. Her torso and stomach exposed. Her legs are bent at the knees and drawn up towards her again.

 

“Do yerself a favor. When we get back to HQ, tell ‘em everything they wanna know and save yourself the trouble.”

 

“Do  _ yourself  _ a favor and go fuck yourself!” She spits.

 

“Fair ‘nough.” Mccree shrugs, taking in another mouthful of the disgusting, clumpy tuna. He drowns his next bite in some watery mayonnaise he finds at the bottom of the MRE package.

 

“Seriously though…...they won’t go easy on ya if ya make yerself an inconvenience. Even if ya are a lady,  _ Ms. Manners _ .”

 

Lacy scoffs. “Stop calling me that.”

 

Mccree glances at her childishly. “Make me.”

 

Lacy shakes her head and goes quiet again. That is, until she shifts and lets out another strangled noise of pain. Mccree swallows the last of his edible bile and stands up, taking the rest of the MRE package and canteen with him. He steals a quick look over his shoulder to make sure the others are still sleeping. A resounding snore from Bristow’s huddled form and continued silence from Anawi is his answer. He sits cross-legged mere inches away from Lacy. She’s no real threat, even if she were at full strength. Her legs are bound at the ankles and knees in black nylon rope. Peacekeeper sits holstered safely at his hip.

 

Steady. Stable. Secure.

 

“Our gracious overlords back at O-dub always  _ do  _ manage to find the funding to feed us the shittiest MRE’s on the planet but….it’s better than nothin’.” He shakes the package in question at her.

 

“I won’t take anything from you--”

 

“Yain’t takin’ shit from me,  _ Ms.Mann-- _ ma’am. I’m  _ giving _ it to ya.

They both choose that moment to look down at the lumpy, unappetizing ‘tuna’, half-eaten and smelling of week old wet cat-food left out in the sun. Lacy’s mouth twists in disgust.

 

“Eugh…..uh. Nevermind. I--- _ shit  _ I can’t believe I just ate that fuckin’ much of it,  _ shit _ …” Mccree says pitifully. He rubs his neck. Through sheer willpower alone does the food stay down.

 

Mccree convinces himself that the breath Lacy exhales is the attempt at a laugh, and his shoulders go slack.

 

“Y’know what? Fuck it. Here.” Mccree digs to the bottom of one of the MRE’s side pockets and produces a bag of skittles. Exact same shit he saw Vetrov wolf down after Echo squad's funeral.

 

“You are not feeding me.”

 

Mccree smiles flatly. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it, Ms. Manners.”

 

“Stop. Calling. Me. That.”

 

“Make. Me.” Mccree imitates.

 

“Here’s the deal. I’m gonna undo one of the cuffs to one hand. You can eat these by yerself like a big girl. But I will draw my weapon and keep it trained on you for the duration of this exchange. If you give me reason to believe yer gonna try anythin’, I will finish what my superior officer wanted to start. Understand?”

 

Lacy tiredly nods. The exchange happens. And neither of them try anything funny. They sit there like that. Only silence and Lacy’s slow chewing on the candies of pure colored sugar can be heard. That and fuckin’ Bristow snoring up a storm.

 

Mccree waits until she’s finished the package. Lacy then ends up eating the rest of the tuna MRE, crackers, peanut butter, strawberry milkshake and all anyway. She then drains Mccree’s canteen dry and devours the week old mint rolls and gummy bears Mccree didn’t know he had stashed in the sides of one of his boots. The cuffs go back on and Mccree scoots back before he asks,

 

“What was Russell’s first name and rank?”

 

He expects fireworks. He expects himself to have just destroyed hours worth of half-progress with a simple sentence. He expects screaming, cursing, hostility from the female officer. But all he is greeted with is a wispy frown, hard-set and seemingly permanent on her face. She closes her eyes.

 

“Emmet. His name was Emmet. He was a second lieutenant like me. Just promoted.”

 

Behind Mccree. Anawi stirs awake. Receiving another transmission from Laurent. Their EVAC is quicker than expected, and specialist Lacroix is eager to debrief with the agents before Reyes is even notified that the mission has been completed.

Lacy maneuvers herself to brush one of her restrained arms against her stomach. A wall between her and everything else.

 

A shit wall.

 

But a wall nonetheless.

 

Mccree feels that second-hand deja vu again. Fuck he’s been there too. He  _ gets it _ .

 

Mccree’s eyes scan the middle distance. Kunchai and the others have returned from their bonfire. They begin loading Blackwatch bodies onto foldable stretches and disappearing back into the night. Bristow insists on carrying Akami without help.

 

“How did you know about us--”

 

“How long have you ‘n Emmet been together?”

 

“Apparently long enough.” Lacy’s laugh is hollow, tinged with a raw bitterness.

 

Anawi stretches and scans the upper catwalks one last time. As if she could will Vetrov into existence in that very moment. Esparza puts a weary hand on her shoulder  before he escorts Kennedy on his arm outside for fresh-ish air. Somewhere, Laurent has packed up the remnants of ground team base into a last century, piece of shit humvee; as he makes his way towards the rest of the team's location at the warehouse. Mccree’s hat sits in the passenger's seat 

 

“And for how long have ya known yer carryin’ Emmet’s child?”

 

Lacy turns and locks eyes with Mccree. Green and Brown. She stiffens in place before scowling. Hackles raised.

 

“Long enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens my dudes. btw tell me if u guys dont like the liberal usage of OC's im genuinely interested in what u guys think. thanks as always for reading.
> 
> Translations:  
> La Yusadiq- arabic for 'unbelievable'


	10. At your Convenience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it...is......DONE.  
> things are actually gonna pick up soon im so jazzed that this chapter is actually legit done; and just in time for Thanksgiving!!

_ Yayo was right about needing that good nights sleep, the boy mused. After that night on the porch swing, cuddled up next to his ‘buelo who wielded a guitar in hand, all the tomorrows that seemed to follow seemed to get harder. _

 

_ Their little bungalow usually existed in a state of solitude. Their neighbors were the deserts of Agua Fria that embraced them on all sides. Santa Fe, a stone's throw away from them, gleamed and glittered like a distant beacon in the cold New Mexican nights. Joel always wondered what it would be like to live in such a place. It seemed to loud, so big. And with all those glittering lights, he had to wonder if the people of Santa Fe lived with all those lights, did they even get to experience night time? How would they know when to sleep? Did they? _

 

_ Joel knew that no sleep or lack thereof made people cranky.  Heck, Mama wasn’t even a real person if she had no morning coffee or less than eight hours of rest. _

 

_ So one day, when two pale men in sharp blacks suits descended upon their little bungalow from Santa Fe; Joel stared up at their sour faces, their dark circles, the lines of exhaustion carved into their hardset visages--- _

 

_ As pretty as Santa Fe must have looked from a distance, Joel preferred having the nighttime and sleep moreso. He was fine where he was. _

 

_ The two suited men became regular visitors. Once every week he would hear their heavy footsteps beat against the creaky wooden porch, against the chipped tiles of the kitchen floor. They would march right past yayo like he didn’t exist. Sometimes, one of them would even make it a point to shoulder past him on their way to go speak to mama in the kitchen. Only mama. _

 

_ Mama, who definitely wears high-collared flannels and turtlenecks in the house despite the merciless nature of a New Mexican summer. Her skin is blotchy and red, the blight has spread down her neck and chest. The way she scratches and tears at herself must be painful, because she winces whenever her nails make contact with her own flesh, whenever she dares to pull her sleeves down gently over her arms. Mama’s coughing gets worse. Her hacking and wheezing sends the window shutters and Joel’s heart rattling on their hinges. One time, he notices how mama starts walking into doors and walls. How she feels the air in front of her before she claims it with her presence. Now when the three of them are seated at the dinner table, her eyes no longer meet anyone else's when she speaks to them. _

 

_ Joel pretends to not notice that she’s getting worse. _

 

_ The pale men take the same seats at the same lone table in the room, across from mama who would always greet them from her own seat at the table. She never stood to greet them. Instead he eyes would track their motions. Her hands would offer them both cups of coffee. Her legs would shift uncomfortably, crossing one ankle over the other. Normally yayo would shoo Joel outside to go play or would entertain him with guitar lessons. But today yayo is laid up in their shared bedroom sleeping off a fever and mama hasn’t seen Joel peeking through the almost closed doorway yet. _

 

_ Mama’s eyes are downcast, staring down the coffee in her cup, black as the night and sweeter than sin. _

_ The younger of the two men speaks first. In english. Joel presses his ear closer to the door. He can hear them clear as day but his english isn’t that good yet. He frowns. _

 

_ Whatever the man says makes mama scoff. She answers him in spanish, oddly enough. _

 

_ “I will not hide in my own house, I’ll speak however--whichever way I want, Verges.” _

_ Silence follows. ‘Verges’ clears his throat and adapts. _

 

_ “I just thought it would be easier for you…...y’know, since you’ve got a kid skulking around--it’d be safer to speak--he doesn’t know english, does he?” _

 

_ “Enough, but that’s besides the point.” Mama considers with a shrug. Joel feels pride flutter light and high in his throat. _

 

_ The older man speaks up, also in spanish; his accent is atrocious and awkward. He may as well be reading off of google translate. “Where is he?” _

 

_ “Here, Captain, where I can watch him. Where else would he be?” Mama rebuffs, gritting out the last word like she just swallowed a mouthful of sand. _

 

_ “And the old man?” _

 

_ Joel can hear mama wrinkle her nose in disdain.“Sick in bed with a fever we can’t treat, my son is taking care of his grandfather. No one is listening. We won’t be bothered.” _

 

_ Joel can hear the older gentlemen loudly frown in disbelief. More muffled shuffling is heard. He hears the little radio over by the sink crackle to life. The throaty rumbling and strains of a Johnny Cash song make it harder for Joel to hear the conversation. Joel huffs and presses himself closer to the door. Determined. _

 

_ “--as it were, the noise of thunder _

_ One of the four beasts saying, _

_ 'Come and see.' and I saw, and behold a white horse" _

 

_ “--Have you received any more letters? Any other….gifts?” Verges said. _

 

_ “Not since last spring. When I contacted you both...….that means he’s either running again or he’ll drop by soon.” _

  
  


_ Joel hears Cragen let out a bedraggled sigh. He hears the chair scrape against the tiles signaling the man's departure from his seat. The rustling of glass and wood tells Joel that he’s gone sniffing around for mama’s stash of alcohol. _

 

_ “--At the terror in each sip and in each sup _

_ Will you partake of that last offered cup--” _

 

_ “Then let's hope it’s the former….we can only protect you for so long.” Verges murmurs. _

 

_ Mama lets out a mirthless scoff, muffled only in volume by the door. “Protect me? You call this protection? We are just as much trapped here in the desert as we would be anywhere else! Look around you. We are barely getting by.And this--this is no place to raise a child! He should be going to school, meeting children his own age, hell--able to use his real name!” Mama hisses. _

 

_ “Dub-PP has done nothing but isolate us. And even that's stopped working. If and when that animal comes around here again I don’t know if I can hold him off again. He nearly killed my father the last time.” _

 

_ Joel hears some glass slam against the counter. _

_ “Then you shouldn't've had his fucking!--” _

 

_ Verges cuts his superior off before he can finish the statement. “--Enough, Captain. You’re out of line!” _

 

_ “…...kid.” Cragen growls out. _

 

_ Joel sucks in a breath.  Aside from Johnny Cash’s sonorous soliloquy, silence strangles the household. No one says anything for a while. _

 

_ “Multitudes are marchin' to the big kettledrum _

_ Voices callin', voices cryin' _

_ Some are born and some are dyin'--” _

 

_ Verges switches back to english. He speaks in hurried tones, trying to sooth them both, before he lowers his voice. Back in spanish. _

 

_ “We can move you all again. New place--a different state even. New names….?” _

 

_ No one answers him. _

 

_ Verges lets out a huff of exasperation.“We can’t just leave you to fight this all alone….this was both our faults. Not just yours. We put you on that op.” He says sharply. _

 

_ Mama must not be looking at him. Joel doesn’t see it; how Verges lays a firm, calloused hand over her skinny fingers and squeezes gently. How he dares to glance at mama with a longing that never gets verbalized. _

 

_ “Please….look at me, ‘Laudi. Let us help you. Let us help you help your family.” _

 

_ “We’ll get him this time, I promise--” _

 

_ “Don’t.” _

 

_ Another chair scrapes against the floor. Joel wishes he’d just stayed with yayo in his room. _

 

_ “Don’t promise me anything. Just---just do it.” _

 

_ “Okay….alright...por supuesto….” Verges says. _

 

_ Cragen interrupts.“We’ll increase the patrol drive-bys in this area. I’ve already alerted state troopers in the area to keep an ear to the ground for 911 calls within a 20 mile radius. I’ll put in a call with NMSP and WPP about that new safehouse and identities.” _

 

_ “Sir I….” _

 

_ “Stuff it, Verges. I want you to personally hound the gang ops division about their shitty work ethics. Get on top of ‘em and get whatever case files and paper trails they’ve managed to build up on Mr. Muskeg so far; we’re taking over this investigation and you need to be the one to tell ‘em that if they don’t like it-- to kiss my shiny white ass.” _

 

_ Joel clasps his hands over his mouth, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He said a cuss woooord. He waits for the sound of Cragen getting smacked upside the head by mama but it doesn’t come. _

 

_ No fair. _

 

_ “Whoever is filthy let him be filthy still _

_ Listen to the words long written down--” _

 

_ Whatever conversation transpires after that goes unknown to Joel. All three act upon an unspoken agreement and simultaneously switch to english.But they speak like thunder clouds now; low and rumbling--their language is a haze of muddled gibberish. When heavy footsteps start to make their way for the door Joel bolts out of sight. He ghosts down the hall ,speedily whisking open his bedroom door, and shuffling onto the bed next to yayo. He  curls up into the sleeping man's side. Yayo’s mustache tickles the top of his head. Joel closes his eyes. _

 

_ He ignores the rattling of a truck pulling up into the drive from outside. The clamoring of new, gritty voices. _

 

_ Instead he is still hyper-aware of the footsteps of mama and the men shuffling for the front door. The footsteps halt. The voices outside get louder. _

 

_ A beat of silence passes before he hears mama’s voice holler for Joel and yayo from down the hall. Her presence races to meet his own. _

 

_ There’s a heavy pounding on the door. More trucks pull up through the drive. Joel hears the loud beeping of another radio. Then another. _

 

_ “--It’s alpha and omega’s kingdom come.” _

 

_ She rips open the bedroom door and her eyes hone in on Joel like a moth seeks the light from a  bug zapper. Cragen and Verges are shouting something to each other, their radios, whoevers outside. _

 

_ To mama. _

 

_ She startles when gunshots erupt from outside. Somewhere in the house a window breaks. The glass shatters and hits the floor, nothing like the heavy weight of a wine bottle slammed on the counter. _

 

_ Mama scoops Joel up from his place next to Yayo. Shaking him, hugging him close. _

 

_ Joel puts his hands over his eyes. He doesn’t let himself see yayo’s prone form. The one mama gives up trying to wake up once the voices get closer. He doesn’t see her whisking him down the narrow halls of their squat little pueblo. Joel further buries his head into mama’s shoulder when he feels her stiffen, his arms wrap themselves around the covered skin of her neck and shoulders.  _

 

_ Burning. Blotchy. Blighted. _

 

_ She stops short. More windows shatter. There are dogs outside, baying and hollering. More heavy boots tromp up the steps and across cracked tile. _

 

_ Two distinct screams. _

 

_ Cragen and Verges halfway across the house, fall silent. _

 

_ Somewhere in the dilapidated kitchen, the radio still trills on. _

 

_ Suddenly mama’s arms tighten their grip on Joel. She sucks in a breath that tickles the top of his head. _

 

_ A voice that sounds like acid on rust scritches out to mama. A voice that makes Joel’s blood run cold. Then not at all. _

 

_ “Just where do you think you’re going?” _

 

_ Mama starts to back away. The acidic voice follows. _

 

_ “Jessica.” _

 

_ “No….no.” Mama breathes out. _

 

_ “Well. Good afternoon to you too.” _

 

_ Mama stumbles a bit in her step backwards, her heel catches on the ratty old throw rug in the middle of the room. _

 

_ “You didn’t think you could hide forever, didja? _

 

_ “No. Don’t.” _

 

_ “C’mon, Jessie. Don’t act so surprised now. I told you. I told you I’d come back to you. Always.” _

 

_ For every step mama takes backwards, the faceless voice of venom follows with one step forward. _

 

_ “I always get what I’m due. And I’m due what’s rightfully mine-.” _

 

_ “Don’t do this. God. Please don’t.We-we can talk this out…” _

 

_ Mama stops. Joel feels he back press against the wall. She sucks in a pained breath. The rash must’ve spread there too. _

 

_ All too sudden, a safety switches off. _

 

_ “Bill. Bill please!--” _

 

_ A crackle of a gunshot with the speed and intensity of a bullet train whizzes above his head and finds purchase in another. He tumbles to the ground still in mama’s arms. _

 

_ Joel can only feel the pins and needles of partial deafness settle into his ears. _

 

_ The top of his head feels wet and warm. _

 

_ He screams. _

 

_ The monster with the acid voice gets closer. The closer he gets to Joel, the more he becomes real. With every heavy, real footstep, the monster takes shape. The beast finds themselves take to human form with the same regards as one offers a second-hand coat off a thrift store rack; ill-fitting, cumbersome, and smelling of someone else's week old cigarettes. _

 

_ A big, mean hand over his mouth doesn’t stop his screaming, the tears springing up in his eyes, nor his sudden blind surge of animalistic panic that sends his limbs flailing in every possible direction. _

 

_ His eyes are wide open now. _

 

_ But the sudden blow to the head stops it all. _

_ A renewed vision fades back into black with seeming finality. _

 

_ A little bungalow in the middle of Agua Fria, just a stone’s throw away from Santa Fe, burns to the ground in the light of a day at high noon. Flesh, stone, wood, and any fibers of a possible normal life for Joel become prey to the embers born of a monster. _

 

_ The little radio sitting next to the little sink in the little kitchenette, sparks and shudders in the flames. Johnny Cash recites the last of his soliloquy to a burning audience. _

  
  


_ “And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts _

 

_ And I looked, and behold a pale horse _

 

_ And his name that sat on him was death, and hell followed with him." _

 

_ \------------------------------------------------------ _

 

Mccree had known something was up with the Talon officer as soon as he’d walked in on her and Anawi. The way she shrunk from his footsteps, the way she curled in on herself; shielding her stomach from the world if need be. The cryptic conversation between her and Russell that Mccree had overheard suddenly became a lot less shadowy and unclear.

 

Jesse knows how terrorist groupthink works. He knows that it dismantles someone from the inside out, how the brainwashing and indoctrination that goes with it leaves someone an empty husk waiting to be pumped up full with bullshit and lies. Folks in that crowd that are too far gone tend not to care about their own lives, the lives of others, or that of a possible unborn child. If  _ Ms. Manners _ had truly been that far gone she woulda never cooperated with him. Or worse, provoked Anawi into killing her before he’d walked in. No doubt about it.

 

When it had been him; sitting in cuffs, stuck in a weeklong limbo between consciousness and damning lethargy-- all he wanted was a bullet to the head. He’d spit in the faces of the lucky Blackwatch agents that had detained him. He had broken the nose of his booking officer. Mccree had slipped the cuffs with the spare lockpick he had tucked away on the inner lining of the too big belt around his waist. He had almost made it out of the holding cells where he was kept.

 

Almost.

 

There at the end of the hall, was the big industrial door with ‘freedom’ written all over it. All that blocked his way was a titan of a man who stood at six foot something. Muscles on muscles clad all in black.

 

Mccree tried, and Mccree failed to get past him. As he lay pinned to the ground with his face in the linoleum and a padded knee crushing him between the shoulder blades, all he wanted at that moment was a bullet with his name on it.

 

Commander Gabriel Reyes didn’t afford Mccree such a mercy.

 

For Mccree’s trouble-- he was rewarded with a new set of cuffs, a new interrogation room--

 

A stick of beef jerky and a beef ravioli MRE; the first semblance of food he had since his detainment. That, and a cup of boiled dirt that called itself ‘ _ coffee. _ ’ But Reyes wasn’t done yet. He had more ‘rewards’ in store for the scruffy, punk-ass kid handcuffed to the other end of an industrial-grade steel table.

 

A deal. A job.

 

A new life.

 

_ His  _ life.

 

Reyes simply called it all a second chance. That made the young delinquents face scrunch up in distaste.

 

After all, you can’t get a second chance if you never had a first one to begin with.

 

Mccree sits across from his unconscious prisoner. Unconscious at Anawi’s insistence and by Bristow’s doing. Mccree had disapproved of how she’d been roughly dragged up the ramp onto the rampart. How Anawi had made the cuffs tighter around her wrists. How Bristow had sent the woman tumbling to the ground out cold with a well placed punch to one of the temples of her head.

 

Mccree shifts sourly in his seat. The seats straps dig into his chest and torso uncomfortably until he has the sense to undo them once they’ve gotten a couple thousand miles off the ground.

 

All too swift and sudden the events of the last few weeks come rushing back. Half of his original squad is dead. Even more of the original platoon sent on this mission are dead. Vetrov is a fucking traitor-- and now he’s got a pregnant, comatose terrorist sitting 10 feet away from him.

 

Vicious poison clouds of doubt and guilt seep into his bones. He’s tired. He’s sweaty. He’s got blood on him that isn’t all his own. The documents pressed inside his chest rumple further. The flower too--

 

The flower.

 

Mccree shuffles hurriedly in his seat, carefully-- _ carefully  _ he recovers the daylily from his inner pockets. The flower now remains tucked into an open pocket on his jackets front. The petals are crumpled and some have folded in on itself, but it’s still intact. Still whole.

 

Mccree takes a quick glance around. Anawi is practically married to her comm now; her eyes are vicious creatures that ravage the middle distance. He can only guess who she’s talking to now. Esparza is handing out and setting up biotic emitters in between the other agents in various stages of sleep or lack thereof. Every now and again he catches Esparza glaring at him, until Mccree stares back; defiant and unapologetic for any perceived slight Esparza thinks he must have inflicted. Bristow holds his head in his hands; shaking and murmuring fervent nothings Mccree can’t hear over the engine's noise. 

 

Mccree pulls out the personal comm that he was  _ totally  _ allowed to bring on the mission and one-handedly texts the only person he thinks he can tolerate right now. He brings up her contact information and smirks as he traces the hilariously bad photo set as the photo icon before pressing ‘new message.’

 

BirdNerdㄟ( ･◇･ )ㄏ

**Me:** hey reeha.made it out ok. I’ll b home soon

**BirdNerd:** O word. For realsies?

**BirdNerd:**  just in time too, my guy. I’ve got a history paper on american restoration due mon. w/ ur name on it ;)

 

Jesse scoffs and hunkers down further in his seat.

 

**Me:** what makes u think i wanna write a damn essay when i step on base? write ur own damn ppr, far

**BirdNerd:** i thought you liked writing???? what gives man???help a brother out?????

**Me:** yea no.

**BirdNerd:** Jesse.

**Me:** Fareeha.

**BirdNerd:** Please.

**Me:** No.

**BirdNerd:** this is the opposite of being a good ally.

**BirdNerd:** this is anti-solidarity

**BirdNerd:** You not helping me is homophobic.

**Me:** dude i’m gay too how am i homophobic???

**BirdNerd:** i feel so attacked right now

**BirdNerd:** You are killing me

**BirdNerd:** i’m literally dying, jesse.

**BirdNerd:** Jesse.

**BirdNerd:** You’re killing your sister.

 

Mccree rolls his eyes. But before he can respond, he feels a warmth on his shoulder. It’s Kennedy, looking down at him. A weary grimace hangs from her face as if gravity is trying its damndest to pull it down all by itself.

 

“Anyone sitting here?” She motions vaguely to the jumpseat next to him.

 

“Now there is.” Mccree tries to smile for her. Kennedy blinks and nods before slumping down beside him. Mccree goes back to his comm, albeit a little more put-off now.

 

**BirdNerd:** my crops are dying

**BirdNerd:** my skin is unclear

 

“Who’s that?” Kennedy’s eyes slide over to the comm screen, but her prone form remains defeatedly still.

 

“Uh...my--sister?She’s um.Yea.”

 

Kennedy breaths out what she wishes was a smile.

 

“Younger or older?”

 

“Pfft.” Mccree scrolls the conversation up to the beginning and puts the screen in her field of vision. He slowly scrolls back down as Kennedy’s eyes trace the dialogue.“You tell me.”

 

“........younger sister then.”

 

“Folks?We have a winner,” Mccree says with a warming grin.

 

Kennedy hums, satisfied. Her head gently rests against the jumpseats uncomfortable padding. She closes her eyes.

 

“Holmes has…... _ had _ a little sister--and a brother. They’re twins.”

 

That takes the wind out of Mccree’s sails immediately. He clears his throat.

 

“Bonnie and Kyle.” Kennedy whispers to herself.

 

The air surrounding them in the plane’s cabin suddenly drops 20 degrees.

 

Mccree wishes Lacy would wake up. That way he’d have something to do besides be harassed to write term papers and be reminded about all the empty seats on the ship that should be filled.

 

“Hey. Kennedy. I’m awful sorry about Holmes. Y’all were close, ya made for a cute couple and I know my word don’t mean much but--she was-- seemed to be a good person. I  _ know  _ she was a good agent but I can’t say much personally ‘bout her.”

 

Kennedy opens her eyes.

 

“ ‘m sorry I couldn’t tell y’all about what Gerard had planned. I honestly didn’t know much of anythin’ besides the intel and the mission he gave me, which was shit and shoddy at best.”Mccree huffs incredulously. “If it were up to me, I’da been fightin’ the good fight right there with ya.”

 

Kennedy turns her head to face him. Brown eyes leer into his own.

 

“‘m sorry for yer loss--”

 

“Sorry doesn’t bring her back.”

 

Mccree feels shame boil cold in his throat. What a stupid fucking thing to say. Jesus Christ.

 

Shit.

 

“My apologies then, ma’am.” Mccree tucks the brim of his hat lower to cover his eyes.

 

Kennedy isn’t done yet.

“What am I supposed to tell them? Bonnie and Kyle. How do I tell them they lost a sibling?”

 

Mccree gives a subtle shrug of the shoulders. “I don’t reckon I know.”

 

Kennedy pauses, her brows knit.

 

“If  _ you _ died.”

 

Mccree turns to face her now, gaze hardening under the shadow of the brim.

 

“What would you hope I tell  _ your  _ sister? What would I tell this-- _ Fareeha _ ?”

 

Mccree raises his chin so he can stare directly at an unflinching Kennedy. He searches her eyes as if the answer he wishes he could articulate was hidden in her miserable iris’ of brown.

 

Normally he’d think to crack a joke at this point. Offer Kennedy a smarmy quip and be done with it. Maybe a pun. But he’s tired. And she’s tired.

 

He figures the best way to shut her up is to tell the truth. Short and not so sweet.

 

“That I loved her. That she was still being loved by me, even if I couldn’t be there no more.”

 

“That I’m sorry.”

 

“ _ That’s it? _ Kennedy spits accusingly.

 

Mccree nods his head.

 

“That’s it. You said it yourself, sorry’s and words don’t mean much and there’s nothin’ no one could tell Fareeha that could make things better.”

 

Kennedy turns away. A faint snarl etched on her features. She slumps back again in defeat and within minutes, she’s asleep. Mccree sighs and turns his gaze again to his comm. Four new unread messages from Fareeha.

 

**BirdNerd:** moms gonna be pissed if i fail this paper

**BirdNerd:** and reinhardt always takes her side so i don't have any support over here

**BirdNerd** :jesse

**BirdNerd:** i’m literally gonna jump off the HQ roof.

**Me:** do a flip

**BirdNerd:** you're not my favorite person anymore.

 

Jesse traces the contact photo again with a gloved hand, some drying blood from early smudges onto the screen. He frowns and curses under his breath as he tries to remove the smear with his arm. It only further spreads the tacky red-brown slick.

 

**Me:** o yea?whos ur new fav?

 

Fareeha leaves him on ‘read’ for the next five minutes. When she finally does respond, her answer makes Mccree snort.

 

**BirdNerd:** Angela.

**Me:** oooooooooo

**Me:** i knew it

 

Mccree waits a moment for it to sink in.

 

**BirdNerd:** ........wAIT SHIT NO NOT LIKE THAT

**Me:** i bet 

**BirdNerd:** fuck jesse dont say anything to her

**BirdNerd:** please you dont have to write my paper anymore

**BirdNerd** : i meant it in a PLATONIC way!!!!

 

**Me:** of course u did…….

**Me:** y’know what far? I’ll write ur paper. As soon as i step back on hq and finish off the debrief.

 

**Me:** O and i almost forgot, i gotta go get a physical done w/ dr.ziegler too 

**BirdNerd:** shut up

**Me:** whats wrong?u jealous?

**Me:** i’m sure angie could give you a physical too if you just ask…..

 

**Me:** nicely ;)

**BirdNerd:** you are a terrible human being.

 

**Me:** ;)

 

Mccree closes the comm and slips it back into his boot next to Parikh’s penknife. The smile eventually fades from his face and he can’t help but feel worse than before he texted her.

 

A buzz comes over the Orca. Laurent’s voice filters into the cabin.

 

“With the exception of the medical staff, be advised all personnel must be seated and strapped in. We are expecting some turbulence up ahead. Without delays, ETA to HQ:Zurich is currently 22:40.”

 

Half the agents aboard let out groans and noises of disapproval, including Mccree.

\----------------------------

 

When Reyes enters Gerard’s office uninvited, he’s greeted by an unlocked door. His secretary is also nowhere to be seen. He pushes the door more ajar and steps in; frowning at his comm. Athena said he’d be here.

 

Then he here’s it. Faint laughter. He rounds a corner and spots the pair at the chess board backed into the offices corner. Man and wife.

 

Mrs. Lacroix's shoulders shake she’s laughing so hard. In her perfectly manicured hand rests the white king piece; a recent conquest then.

 

“--c'est échec et mat?” she stifles her giggles with her other hand.

 

“Je pense que tu aimes trop gagner, mon amour…” Gérard grumbles. He holds his head in a hand.

 

Another giggle escapes her. “Mais bien sûr! tu es si mignon quand tu perds--”

 

Reyes clears his throat, rapping a knuckle against the wall. Both sets of eyes swivel to him.

 

“Should I come back later?”

 

Gerard's eyes bug out of his head. He shoots out of his seat and stands at attention.

 

“Good evening, sir!--”

 

“As you were, Gerard. These are locked off hours. No formalities.” Gabe almost sounds disappointed as he crosses his arms.

 

Gerard loosens immediately, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “Of course. Right. I-- do you need something, Reyes?”

 

The wife shoots Gabe a smug look and rests her chin on folded hands.

 

“Madame Lacroix.” Gabe says with a small smile and a courteous nod to the missus.

 

“We’ve had this  _ discussion  _ before, Monsieur Reyes. Call me Amelie.”

“I need to borrow your husband for a bit, if that’s alright with you.”

 

Amelie raises an eyebrow.

 

“Amelie.” He finishes.

 

The french woman sucks in a breath and makes a dramatic, sweeping gesture of her arm to consider the gold and diamond rolex on her wrist. She tutts and tsks, her head lolling slowly from side to side.

 

“Mmm….I don’t know…...”

 

Gerard shoots his wife a deer-in-the-headlights look. Gabe’s grin widens.

 

“Consider it a favor, por moi. I’ll owe you one.”

 

“That is all I needed to hear,  _ Monsieur _ .”

 

Amelie rolls her neck as she stands, she places the chess piece back on the board with a triumphant clack. Her Prada bag gets laced over a shoulder. Her Jimmy Choo sunglasses secured in it.

 

Her heels are Gucci. The peacoat she shrugs on is Burberry. The air around her reeks of wealth and influence.

 

Then again; Gabe has no doubts the woman could scream ‘influence’ if she were clad in nothing more than a potato sack and some crocs.

 

“I expect that you will give Gerard an extension on his next leave of absence then? Perhaps more time off around Christmas? 

 

“All that and more; if need be, Amelie.”

 

Gerard stands there, gaping. “S-sir are you sure?!--”

 

“More paid sick days would do nicely as well…”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Mmmm. And you know… I would prefer better accommodations for my husband and I on base during my visitations…”

 

Gabe mock considers it with a faux shrug of the shoulders.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“My own keycard to his office?”

 

“Child's play.”

 

“ _ Sir _ \-- _ Amelie _ \--”

 

“Well then! It’s seems that I should be on my way.” Amelie strides over to her husband. She kisses him chastely on the nose and holds his cheek in her hand. He’s still sputtering. She whispers something lovingly into his reddening ears and pats his cheek.

 

Before she passes Gabe she looks him up and down. She sticks out her hand in a fluid motion.

 

“Don’t keep him too long, you hear?”

 

They shake on it.

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

Amelie nods. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

 

“As always.”

 

She spares the two of them one lasting parting glance before closing the door behind her.

 

Immediately Gerard tries to save face.

 

“ _ I-- _ sir I truly apologize if my wife imposed. If? I mean she did--impose I mean. I-ah. I don’t need that extension or those sick days and my wife certainly does not need a keycard to my office--”

 

“Because she already has one.” Gabe deadpans.

 

Gerard makes some sort of awkward choking noise as his brain desperately tries to verbalize a backtrack.

 

“Look. I don’t really care about that. You do your job and you do it well. I can’t ask for more. As long as you’re not sharing anything confidential with her and put distance between her and The Mission when need be--I don’t give a shit.”

 

Gerard's mustache twitches.

 

Gabe doesn’t catch it though, he eyes the antique chessboard in the corner. The black king piece stands alone on the center of the board. White and black pieces are haphazardly strewn around it.

 

“I appreciate that, Reyes.”

 

“I mean it. You and Ana are the only ones I trust with anything Blackwatch. Especially you. I don’t know how I’d feel about making Ana an OIC for an op; but you?”

 

Gerard shoots a miserable glance at Gabe’s feet.

 

“You’re as close as Overwatch gets to touching my shit.”

 

Gabe strides to the chess table and turns to Gerard.

 

A switch flips in Gerard.He smiles; his back straightens and he gestures to chair his wife sat in moments ago. “Please.”

 

They take their seats. Both men wordlessly clean the board. Gerard picks up the king.

 

“How’s that mission in Monaco going?”

 

“Do you want the black or white pieces?”

 

Gabe narrows his eyes. Gerard considers his boss innocently.

 

“Quoi? It is an honest question. The same cannot be said for yours.”

 

“The hell it isn’t. I turned over command ops to you, but it’s still Blackwatch. Still  _ mine _ .”

 

Gerard hums and stacks the two groups of pieces next to one another.

 

“The intel job. The one Mccree was assigned to? Anawi, Ogundimu and Bristow were the assigned squad leaders.”

 

“Oh. Yes. That one. It is fine, Reyes. I would have told you if something was wrong.” Gerard waves the air by the side of his head.

 

“Then why dodge the question at first? Why the hesitance?”

 

Gerard looks up, his smile growing deeper. “You’ve got a lot on your mind, non? The last thing you need to do is let your work follow you into ‘locked-off’ hours. Into my office. At  _ my  _ chess table.”

Gabe says nothing. He’ll let it slide.

 

Gerard holds up the white and black kings.

 

“Do you want the black or white pieces?”

 

Gabe blinks slow. Once, then again. Normally that alone makes Gerard sweat, but the frenchman sits resolute. “What’s the difference?”

 

“Well. The ‘white’ player moves first. Moving first has its advantages. Advantages help one to win. Ever since the white man rewrote the rules and had the white player go first, they’ve created quite the track record of wins over the black ones.”

 

“Then why would I want the black ones?”

 

Gerard spares a quick a glance at the ceiling and shrugs.

 

“Aesthetic?”

 

Gabe lets out a chuckle, short but deep. 

 

Gerards grin turns almost predatory, his mismatched eyes of blue and brown dig into Gabe’s own. “And you know-- you never struck me as the type to shy away from a challenge. To take the easy road.”

 

“That so? What makes you think I  _ won’t  _ take it? If white gets me to win, the natural move would be to take white.”

 

Gerard holds it out. “Then by all means,  _ sir _ .”

 

Without fail, Gabe leans over and plucks the black king from Gerards grip.

 

The board is set.

 

“I still wanna discuss the mission.”

 

“Of course. As soon as our game is done.”

 

“What’s wrong, junior? You can’t chew gum and walk at the same time?”

 

Gerard cracks his neck. “By all means, let’s discuss it now then--”

 

“Nah, you’re right. Let’s get the game started first then.”

“At your convenience, sir.” There’s a twinkle in Gerards eye. He waits.

 

“After you, Lacroix. You’ve got first move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhho my god you guys are so sweet. i received such kind comments and messages from y'all honestly it means so much!!! thank you for your continued support and interest in this fic<333
> 
> Translations & slang:
> 
> The song that plays in the beginning is Johnny Cash- The Man comes Around  
> c'est échec et mat-loosely means 'that's checkmate?'  
> Je pense que tu aimes trop gagner, mon amour- 'I think you like to win too much, my love.'  
> Mais bien sûr! tu es si mignon quand tu perds-'But of course! You are so cute when you lose.'  
> 'Locked-off' hours-gets thrown around alot in some military programs. basically its hours where only basic military customs and courtesies have to be observed. a more casual setting is in affect.  
> OIC- Officer In Charge


	11. UPDATE

Hey guys, Acesara here! Just wanted to give you all a quick heads up that I'm putting B: OE on hold until I finish up my more recent work, "The Road to Pasadena." There will be many minor plot points and details in that fic that will recur in this fic and I've kinda hit a roadblock plot wise until I tie up the loose ends the other fic might create. Thank you so much for understanding and reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Slang translations:  
> To 'unfuck' oneself- To fix, correct, or rectify  
> To be 'dicked up'- Generalized state of being incorrect or broken.  
> FUBAR- 'Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.'  
> shit hot- Outstanding, hardcore, tactically proficient.
> 
> Extra Tidbits:  
> -The Ogundimu mentioned in this fic is not Doomfist obvisouly lmao, I headcanon that this OC is actually an aunt of Akande's from his father's side who lowkey joins 'overwatch' in order to keep tabs on how the organization views and interacts with her brothers, Doomfist's father's business.  
> -Despite Overwatch in-game squads being comprised of 6 members, many real-life military squads are usually comprised off 8-9 men.  
> -Some agents have odd middle names in quotation marks like 'Popcorn' Bristow; it's basically a callsign sometimes given to agents because of inside jokes or nicknames that highlight a characteristic about the agent.
> 
> Music suggestions:  
> Band of Brothers- String Quartet In C-Sharp Minor, Op. 131  
> Band of Brothers- Points: Austria
> 
> ~Thanks for reading and any criticism or comments dropped below are appreciated! Hit me up on tumblr at aph-mouse as well if you like!


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